


Body Language

by Familiae



Series: It's just a matter of falling apart [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Awkward Sexual Situations, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 56,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22148170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Familiae/pseuds/Familiae
Series: It's just a matter of falling apart [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1445752
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

“You look like shit.”

Keep your eyes on the ground. Keep walking. Don’t even bother looking up to make eye contact. No, instead load your reply with enough sarcasm to drown out the hurt. “Like I don’t know that already.”

He has the capability to sound affronted. Like I’m the one who did something wrong. “I’m just trying to be honest. Jesus. You can appreciate that at least, right?”

A sting of betrayal, just sharp enough to rival a bee’s sting. But swallow it down, Mikey. Swallow it down and say nothing. This is how they always treat you. Today is no different. Now is no different. Why would anything be _different_? You’re nothing special, Mikey. Never have been, and never will be.

“Oh, come off it, Spence. Leave the poor guy alone.”

It’s a girl who comes to your rescue. That’s just fitting, isn’t it?

“It’s fine.”

And it is. The momentary bite of emotion fades, and it’s fine. Peachy. It’s always fine. Not like it’s ever going to change.

So bite your tongue. Because it’s fine.

“See, Bella? The boy’s fine. He takes it like a man.” And he cuffs me on the back of the head with a bit of force. It causes me to stumble a bit.

Bella simply lets out her breath through her nose and ‘tsk’s her tongue once. But she says nothing.

And there ya go, Mikey. Thought she’d stand up for you for a second, didn’t you?

“I wonder if there are any good games to play?” Bella keeps walking, though on her tip toes. She apparently thinks she’ll turn into a giraffe or something and get a good view of the whole park.

And that’s proof enough that she never once had a flicker of a thought about actually standing up for ya, now isn’t it?

“Oh, Bella.” Spence stops suddenly. A few people behind us cast him a dirty look as they veer sharply to avoid running into him. “Remember that roller coaster I was talking about? That’s here. Wanna check it out?”

Her eyes light up. “Oh, yes. I would love to do that.”

His arm slides around her waist, and she easily fits against him.

I’m reminded yet again how much of an outsider I am. Pity. That’s the only reason I’m here, I’m sure. I’m pitied—I’m the one that gets invited on a whim because it’s the _nice thing to do_. I’m the charity case. I’m always the charity case.

And ya know? I’m kinda sick of the charity case.

But bite your tongue. Because it’s _fine_.

They’re walking again, several strides ahead of me, not even really glancing back to make sure they didn’t lose me. Because I’m the puppy who follows them around obediently and—hopefully—silently, too eager for their attention to protest.

“Oh, but it only seats two.” Spence seems to finally remember that I’m there, and glances back at me. He doesn’t even look apologetic. “You can just stay here if you want. If you came with us, we’d be separate—”

I don’t want to hear him right now. In fact, I know I shouldn’t care, but my throat starts to burn with raw emotion. Of course he’d invite me just to dump me off somewhere. He wanted this to be a date with his girlfriend.

You’re a charity case, remember?

So I don’t let him finish his sentence, don’t let him carelessly (callously?) brush aside my feelings, and cut him off. I carefully load my words with confidence I don’t have. “Actually, I want to go play some games. So I’ll go do that. Yeah?”

For just a second, he looks annoyed that I cut him off, and I feel a sense of useless pride for—for what? For standing up for myself? For being a dick? I don’t know. I guess I shouldn’t really feel proud of myself, but I am. A dick, that is.

Secretly, anyway. I guess.

Spence doesn’t even look taken aback. “Oh, well then... yeah. We’ll catch you later, right?”

Not like you’d care either way. I’m the third wheel and we both know it. “Right.”

And with that, he leads Bella away, who throws me one last glance. Spence doesn’t even bother to do that. He’s already talking to Bella, and I wonder if they’re talking about me for a moment. But before I allow the cold fangs of paranoid betrayal to bite into my gut, I briskly turn and wander in the opposite direction.

I know there’s an area filled with all sorts of games not too far away, and I wander around for a bit before stumbling over it. I float around between the games, like a confused mackerel that lost its current. It’s hard to casually walk up to a game and play a few rounds when you feel like everyone _knows_ that you’re the abandoned third wheel, wandering around, trying to find something to do while you wait for your friends to finally decide they want your company again.

So instead I decided to sit on a bench. Which probably would make me look even more pathetic—like I was the left-behind third wheel and I was too poor to even play a few games to pass the time. But I was. Too poor to pass the time with games, that is. I don’t think I brought much pocket money. But whatever. Crowd watching was just as fun as playing the games, anyway.

And so that’s just what I did. I watched strangers play games that I couldn’t. Children squealed as they won stuffed animals, guys fist-pumped when they scored a good prize, and the girls looked ridiculous trying to carry away their often way-to-big-to-comfortably-hold prizes.

There was a lucky wheels game not too far—one of those games where you put a coin down on a number and hoped yours was the lucky winner. I watched as the wheel spun, stopped, spun, stopped, spun, stopped, and spun again. It was almost soothing to watch the wheel stop and go and—

And then I very suddenly realized that there was a pattern to the wheel. It didn’t spin randomly, there was a system—I could predict what number it was going to stop on. My eyes narrowed in concentration as the wheel started spinning, waiting for it to stop. It slowed, the numbers slowly slinking along until it feel still.

And I realized that I knew what the next number was going to be. And before I could remind myself that I was still supposed to be wallowing in self-pity for being left behind as the useless third wheel, I was on my feet and at the lucky wheels vendor, fishing through my pockets for a coin. It was then that I remembered that I hadn’t any spare change. But I refused to feel the ugly sting of disappointment again, so I slid the coin nearest to me onto the right number, and fled before anyone could yell at me for doing something so brazen. Behind me, the wheel had stopped and the winning number was being announced, and it was the number I thought it would be.

But I was gone, and I’m not even sure if anyone was calling out to me to come back for my prize.

Probably not. I wasn’t often noticed.

But bite your tongue, Mikey. Because it’s _fine_ that way.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s an odd sensation when you feel like you wouldn’t rather be anywhere else, and yet you’re an outsider. Truly, it’s a conflicting feeling—I felt so unwanted, like a nuisance, and yet I was more comfortable than I would be sitting alone on a bench, or talking to a random stranger.

Or not.

I don’t even know anymore.

“You’ve been rather quiet. I didn’t ask you here for you to play ghost boy.”

It’s a joke. I know it’s a joke. I _know_ that.

But my body reacts differently. My heartbeat speeds up, and I can feel heat pooling in my cheeks, an indignant flush. I want to toss back a smart, sharp retort—one that will convey my annoyance at such a remark. I do. And I _would_ except—

I’m a coward.

So tuck your tail between your legs and mumble something that sounds like an embarrassed excuse. That’s what he expects, and that’s what he should get. If anything, Mikey, you are _not_ about disappointing people.

The sardonic thought it what makes my voice come out a little sharper than I intend it to. “Well, _Spence_, it seems like you’re doing enough talking for the both of us?”

He looks affronted, and maybe a little taken aback. I expect him to get offended, and throw around empty threats, tell me that next time he wants to go to an amusement park, he’ll make sure to skip over my name in his contact list when he’s looking for someone to invite.

But he isn’t given a chance to react to the fight I’m trying to start.

“The boy’s right, Spence, dear. I swear it’s ten degrees hotter around us from all your talking. Give poor Markus a chance to get a word in edge-wise sometimes.” Bella winks at me, and the smallest of smiles quirks my lips in response before I can think about what I’m doing.

Maybe it’s the fact that Bella sorta—kinda—stood up for me that causes the small rush of confidence. “Where are we heading, anyway?”

Your loyal puppy grows weary of blindly following. He wants to know where the hell you’re leading him.

Spence glances at me—as ever, I’m a few steps behind him and his girlfriend, and he has to turn his neck a bit to properly look at me—and decides to answer. This once he’ll overlook his mutt’s impudence and reply. “There’s a ride back this way that we can all ride together.”

How kind. He’s going to reward you for being such a good chap all day by actually going out of his way to do something with you.

I push back the unnecessary thoughts and try to summon a decent response, but I’m never given the chance to.

“Hey, you!”

_You_ might as well be my name some days with how little others call me anything but. That’s why I turn to investigate—it’s more habit. But I can’t see anyone running towards me or wildly gesticulating for me to come hither. All I see is people doing whatever they do at amusement parks—chastising children from running ahead, digging through their pockets for pocket change for some games, dragging their friends through the crowds to hurry off to other attractions.

“You coming or what?”

My pace must have slowed, because I’m no longer a simple two or three steps behind Spence, but a good twenty now. He looks impatient with me, yet curious at the same time. What sort of silly thing has fascinated our little Mikey this time?

“Yeah,” I mumble, my tone probably not loud enough to carry over to him. I take a few steps toward him, but then I’m being harshly yanked back a step. The sudden tug causes me to stumble. I move to turn, but something is latched onto my sleeve, making it hard to do.

“It’s _rude_ to ignore someone calling you.”

I crane my head, and there’s another man, probably not much older than me, glaring rather vehemently. I think those words are directed at me.

“Uh.” I glance down at his hand, still firmly latched to my sleeve, pulling my shirt tight up against my neck on one side and down my shoulder on the other. I don’t know what possessed me to grin—almost a devilish expression, but not quite—and respond, “I’d think it’s just as rude to try undressing someone before you even get to know them.”

He snatches his hand back quickly, hissing as he sharply drags in a breath—perhaps offended? Hell if I know. Or care, really.

“_You_"—he jabs a finger at me to remind me just who _you_ is—"took my fucking quarter. Now give it back.”

It takes me quite a few seconds to realize just what he’s talking about. In the mean time, I notice that he has a rather large box of chocolates in his other hand—the one he hadn’t been using to anchor me in place—and that’s what really clued me in.

“Oh. So you won.”

He looks like he was going to sputter for a moment. But instead, he grounds out, “_No_. I did _not_ win. Do you want to know why?”

Rather confused and unable to predict where this conversation was heading, I stayed quiet, which he took as a cue to continue.

“I didn’t win. Because I didn’t put my quarter on the right fucking number. No, instead I put my quarter on a number that wasn’t the winning number. Do you know why I have this prize?”

I had nothing to say. So I stayed quiet. Not that it mattered. He only paused for about a second and a half before charging on:

“I have this prize because some _brat_ came up and _stole_ my quarter and moved it. And _that_ number was the winning number. But it was originally my quarter so _I _got the prize.”

My neck flushed. I’m not sure if it was from embarrassment or irritation. “I don’t think I see the problem. You, um, won?”

“The _problem_,” this man growled, “is that _you_"—again with the finger jabbing—"owe _me_"—and he changes things up by jabbing himself rather forcefully in his chest with a thumb—"a quarter.”

And then he’s done, staring at me expectantly. And I—for the _life_ of me—can’t think of something to say. I can’t think of anything to do. Not even a reaction. Except to continue to stare at him.

“_Well_?” he barks. “Get me my quarter.”

Quarter. Right. Of course.

I’m not making eye contact. I’m fishing through my pockets without even really realizing it, but all my fingers can find is lint, which is odd? Because I could have sworn I had—oh, right—and that was when I remembered that I didn’t have any money on me. Not even enough pennies and nickels to equate to the value of a measly quarter.

I clear my throat to prove to myself that I still have a voice because my throat feels dry, shriveled, and useless, like if I try to talk all that will come out is breathy gasps. When I’m reassured that my vocal cords are still in working order, I mumble, “I’ll be right back.”

And then I turn, fleeing like a kicked dog with my tail tucked between my lips, still refusing to risk eye contact, and run back to Spence. My master in all this. Might as well be a dog with how I’m running back to his heels.

It’s not Spence’s fault you’re in this, Mikey. Stop blaming someone else.

Spence looks a little amused—maybe a little irritated, but it’s just a flash, just a shimmer, and then it’s veiled—as he digs through his pocket, retrieves the appropriate coin, and hands it to me.

“I’m just borrowing it,” I remind him, palming it.

Spence snorts. “Yeah, sure.”

Mr. You-Took-My-Fucking-Quarter is still standing where I left him, and I still can’t bring myself to drag my eyes up to meet his. I’m watching his hands as I hold out the quarter. He snatches it back, a jerky, impatient motion, and drops it in his pocket, and it’s swallowed up. Then his other hand moves, shoving the box of—chocolate?—at me, and he just.

Leaves.

Doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t even bother.

Just.

Walks away.

And all I can do is grip the uncomfortably large box to my chest and stare after him.

“ ‘Ey, Markus!” Spence calls. “You comin’ or what?”

I swallow to make sure I still have control over my throat. Doesn’t seem like it recently. “Yeah,” I murmur, though I know I’m much too quiet for him to hope to hear me. “Yeah, I’m coming.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Can I _help_ you, sir?”

I abruptly end my staring contest with the menu to blink at the cashier. My response isn’t the most eloquent. “Huh?”

The girl sighs, her patience with me and the rest of the world obviously drained, and tucks a long lock of hair behind her ear. “What do you want?” she tries again.

A nudge in my ribs makes me glance to the side where Spencer is giving me a look I can’t decipher.

“_Sir_?” the woman behind the cash register calls, the strain obvious in her tone. Behind me, I hear more than a few people sigh impatiently, shift their weight, and grumble about inconsiderate jackasses—that’d be me.

I stare back at the teenager. She blinks at me, frowning. Her mouth pinches after several seconds, and then opens. I _know_ she’s going to say something sharp, so I do what I always do under pressure.

I do something stupid.

“Hot dog,” I blurt.

There, problem solved. I start to relax, even as heat prickles up my neck. I don’t know why I’m getting embarrassed _now_—I should’ve been a blushing, bumbling idiot a minute earlier, when all I could do was stammer and stare like a deer caught in headlights. But there is no reason to get flustered—all is forgiven, said and done.

The girl looks taken aback, and I can’t imagine why. She braces herself on the counter so she can crane her neck and examine the short list of food products on the menu behind her. My eyes dart up to read over it, too, but I’m too anxious, too stressed, to actually take in the words. Finally, the cashier turns back to me, frowning.

“Sir,” she begins, and from her tone I just _know_ that even my measly hot dog request wasn’t enough for her because she’s using a tone that most people reserve for people too stupid to remember their own name (that’d be me, in this case), “we don't _sell_ hot dogs.”

Goddammit.

My eyes dart up to the menu again, desperately trying to find the two words that would prove her wrong. “Uh.”

Hot dog, hot dog, hot dog. It had to be on that menu _somewhere_. Hot dog, hot dog—was a pretzel a hot dog? No, no, of course not. Though I _had_ seen one place sell pretzel dogs, a hot dog wrapped in pretzel dough and baked. Maybe they had those—

“Sir, I’m going to ask you to step aside for now and come back when you figure out what you—”

“Two slices of cheese pizza and a water.”

I snap my mouth shut and shoot Spencer a grateful glance. He looks at me and twists a corner of his mouth back, like he can’t remember something—probably why he ever invited me along today. I was just tripping over myself to cause trouble all day long.

The cashier instantly relaxes and falls back into her routine of pecking at the cash register, accepting payment, and handing me my meal. I can’t even manage a simple “thanks” as I take it and follow Spencer and Bella back to one of the picnic tables. The look Spencer’s giving me renders me mute. Pretty sure he officially thinks I’m some sort of brain-dead freak at this point.

“What was that about?” he demands the moment we’re seated.

I have no answer to give, so I stuff a bite of pizza into my mouth.

Spencer sighs and uncaps his soda, takes a swig. The whole time, he’s still watching me. When he screws the lid back on his beverage, he frowns and persists, “Seriously, Markus. What is up with you recently?”

My mind is frustratingly blank. Not even a simple excuse flits across my mind.

“This seat taken?”

Fortunately, I don’t have to answer. Someone taps the seat across from me and glances around at the three of us, seeking approval. The voice, though, is unusually familiar, and when I chance a peek up at the guy, I nearly drop my pizza rather unceremoniously into my lap.

“Nah, it’s yours if you want it,” Spencer tells Mr. You-Stole-My-Fucking-Quarter, even offering a flash of a smile as a peace offering. For some reason, I highly doubt Spencer remembers who the guy is. But when he sits down, peels back the wrapper from his sandwich, and makes eye contact with me, there’s no mistaking the look in his eyes.

He _definitely_ remembers me.

My mouth dries, and I take a long chug of water. It makes no difference. My tongue still feels like sandpaper in my mouth, and when Mr. You-Stole-My-Fucking-Quarter says, “Imagine meeting _you_ again,” I have no idea what to say, or how to force my tongue to move and form words.

I can’t tell if he takes that as an insult, a sign of cowardice, or just anxiety on my part. His expression doesn’t change as he lazily drawls, “Mute, are you?”

“That’s just Markus for you,” Spencer smoothly intervenes, coming to my rescue, and I’m relieved that I don’t need to explain myself.

“So, Markus, huh?” the guy asks, like he wasn’t just _told_ what my name is.

I decide not to say anything, just give a grudging nod and devour more pizza. Can’t talk with a full mouth. It’s rude.

The guy sits, turns his body so that it’s obvious he just wants to talk to me—that Spencer is now officially an unwelcome party. “How’d you do it, anyway?” he asks without preamble.

I mumble something that might be a baffled “wha?” from behind my pizza.

“Do what?” Spencer asks, looking between us, asking what I’m wondering, but in a more eloquent manner.

Mr. You-Stole-My-Fucking-Quarter motions briefly to the large box of chocolates that lay nearly forgotten near my feet—too large to fit on the table while we eat, I had to settle with maneuvering it so that it was under the table, out of the way.

All eyes are on me now, expectant and curious.

“Oh.” I try to think of how to explain it, but no matter how I lay out the system in my head, I can’t figure out to put it into words. I practice a few explanations quietly, but they all seem choppy or confusing. I really, really am not the person to explain things. And I do not perform well for an audience.

“Um,” I try again after an achingly long pause.

I need to prove I am capable of more than monosyllabic words.

“You just"—I make a few vague hand motions, as though those would explain what I couldn't—"watch it for a while. The game, I mean.”

I’m not sure if pantomiming is any better than monosyllabism. I’m not sure I’m fighting whatever case I’m trying to make. I expect Mr. You-Took-My-Fucking-Quarter to look disappointed in me, because I very obviously didn’t give him the response he wanted. But his expression doesn’t change, though I can’t tell if he is deliberately censuring how he feels or not.

“That’s… smart,” Bella offers politely, breaking her silence. She sounds like she’s not sure what, exactly, she’s complimenting, but she sure is happy to do it.

Spencer makes a noise of disdained amusement at my fumbling.

But Mr. You-Stole-My-Fucking-Quarter doesn’t show any such derision, at least I don’t think so.

“Watch it how?” he finally asks, leaning even closer, intent.

“Uhm.” I pause to take a swig of water, like it will wash away my anxiety. A part of me hopes he doesn’t think I’m being rude; another hopes he does, so he’ll leave me alone. “There’s a system to it.”

He nods, so I continue. I decide not to look at—or towards, I suppose—anyone but him. I don’t think I can take Spencer’s derision or Bella’s odd flavor of condescending pity.

“You can figure it out if you watch it long enough,” I offer. “After a while, I thought I knew what it would be. The number, that is. And I was right.”

It’s the closest thing to an explanation he’s going to get, and I can only hope he’ll accept it for what it is.

I think I see Bella and Spencer exchange some sort of glance from my peripheral vision, but I don’t turn to look. I refuse to look away from—well, not Mr. You-Stole-My-Fuckig-Quarter’s eyes. I can’t quite make eye contact with him. But I’m steadfastly looking somewhere around his left ear.

“Hm,” he humms. “So you didn’t guess? You knew what it was going to be.”

“Well—no—yes. I mean, I thought I knew.”

“Hm,” he humms again, and I don’t know that I like how he doesn’t always give verbal answers, but falls back on sounds. Words I can understand. Body language and sounds are harder.

“You’re not as bad as I thought,” he finally tells me, and he cracks a smile. It’s a rather friendly, inviting smile, and I’m returning it before I can stop myself.

“Trevor,” he says suddenly, in the same tone I’d use to say “you don’t say” or “how’s the weather today?” I stare back at him for several moments.

“My name,” he explains and I let out a small “oh” of understanding.

“Markus,” I return the favor.

“Yes, I know.” His eyes flick to Spencer, a reminder that my name’s already been given.

“Oh,” I say again, but this time it’s followed by a laugh. “Right.”

He laughs, too, and it’s not snide or rude. And it convinces me to relax.

Things only get better from there.

He makes jokes, I laugh. I do something silly, he laughs. We talk about nothing in particular, and it’s enjoyable. Minutes fly by, and Spencer and Bella seem to lose interest in us. By the time everyone’s done eating, I’m just starting to wonder if Trevor will join us for the rest of the afternoon—how it might change the sour notes of my day into something sweeter, more bearable—when his phone buzzes.

Trevor pulls it out and it's _amazing_ how quickly his expressions brightens only to turn stormy. His face pulls back in a scowl as he reads his text. His lips tighten as he punches in a rather lengthy reply. Once he sends it, he takes a deep breath and looks back at me. His smile is apologetic.

“Girlfriend,” he explains, and that really does explain it all. “She’s mad we got separated.”

I don’t really know what to say to that. Relationships have always been a problem of mine, and I never know what advice others are looking for. Fortunately, his phone buzzes again and he checks his text. His scowl returns, deeper than before, and he punches in a much shorter reply this time before returning his phone to his pocket and shrugging.

“Ditching me here apparently.” He closes his eyes and I think I can see him count to ten before opening them again. “I guess I gotta take off.”

He stands and collects his trash, and I scramble to move. It’s a spontaneous decision, fueled by my lifted spirit—the one he managed to buoy. I yank the overly large box of chocolates out from under the table and stop him, hold them out in offering.

“Well, if you’re fighting with your girlfriend, won’t these calm her down a bit?”

He looks surprised at the suggestion, before turning pensive. “Actually, you just might be right,” he concedes finally. “You sure you don’t mind...?”

“No. No, not at all. Take them.”

He’s smiling again when he grabs the box, so bright and warm it melts my stiff face into a softer expression, a returning smile.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll see you around, Markus?”

“Yeah.”

It isn’t until he’s gone and Spencer, Bella, and I are heading out to catch a few more rides that I realize Trevor never gave me any kind of contact information. Not even a phone number or last name so I could look him up. Not that I’m on any social media that I could even do that.

I’ll see you around? Hah, yeah right.

More like I’ll never see him again.


	4. Chapter 4

It happens a few hours later.

I was leaving, walking for the bus stop.

"It was nice," Spencer had said as his parting words. "We should definitely do it again."

And despite my hope that our evening being a bit more fun after the run-in with Trevor (maybe because of my improved mood), I could see the hidden message behind his expression: _Never again._

"Yeah," Bella had agreed. "I enjoyed our time together."

It was the way she curled her arm around Spence's that told me what she left out: she had enjoyed her time together with _her boyfriend_. (Not me.)

And that was when Spence had turned to her and asked her to run over and get a slushie or something stupid to drink from a vendor despite the fact that he still had a water bottle in his bag from lunch.

"Sorry for doing this to ya, Markus, but.. ya know." He grinned. "Evening with Bella planned. As a guy, you should know I don't want to miss that."

He even winked.

I think I mumbled something about it being okay, yeah I understood, of course, no big deal.

And then let him ditch me for a wild night with his girlfriend.

But that was when it happened, of course. I was bumbling around the bus stop like I usually do, trying to remember if I had ten or fifteen minutes until the next bus, when—

Hands slid over my eyes, blinding me, and a panic crawled up my spine because—_muggers?_ Oh, but then:

"Guess who."

And I knew that voice, and the hands, which had felt threatening and malicious a moment before, suddenly felt warm and inviting.

Rather than answer, I spun suddenly, so that his hands were no longer pressed against my eyes, but against the back of my head. I hadn't thought it out very thoroughly, though, because that left our bodies rather close together. Intimately close together. His face was no more than half a foot from mine. I could see the moment the surprise registered in his eyes, the second his eyes widened just a fraction.

"Trevor," I say, uselessly. I can see him now, so telling him I knew who he was at that point was unnecessary.

He slowly takes his hands down. "Markus."

Something tickles pleasantly inside of me at hearing him mimic my name unnecessarily, as well.

That's when he realizes we're practically standing on top of each other and takes a step back. I feel that familiar rush of embarrassment and nerves rise in me, and try to hide it with giddy excitement.

"What're you doing here?"

_I thought I'd never see you again_, I want to add, but decide that's too much. I barely knew him; it would be weird for me to be that excited to see him.

"Same as you." He tilts his head toward a bench sitting near a bus stop sign that somehow escaped my notice. "Waiting for the bus."

I glance over at the bench, the one I guess I just walked right by in a daze, and yeah, that'd make sense that I wouldn't be the only one to use the bus and…

I dunno what I'm doing with my face, but my look of utter amazement (or shock) that I'm not the only person in the country who uses a bus must be an amusing one, because Trevor starts snorting, trying to hold back his laughter, but eventually failing, and raising a hand to chortle behind.

I'm frozen for a moment, not exactly sure how to proceed, and maybe my deer-stuck-in-headlights look is even more amusing? Because next thing I know, one of his arms is snaking around his stomach, pushing back on it to hold in how much it hurt to laugh.

"Um," is all I can offer because what do I say? _You're welcome for my being an idiot. Just another of my charms._

I guess I don't need to say anything though, because it's not too long before he straightening and putting a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm glad I ran into you," he tells me, and that's it.

That's it.

Any resistance in me melts away, is shattered to dust, is wiped away.

I'm smiling back, bright and open, and we're smiling at each other like idiots; these big, goofy grins that make our cheeks ache and stretch our lips painfully thin.

It gets better from there, just like last time. And just like before, we're joking and talking and giggling over nothing.

"So that guy you were with earlier, was that his girlfriend with him?" he asks at one point.

The question surprises me. "Who, Spencer? Oh, yeah."

"Spencer, huh?" he repeats. "Did he buy all that jewelry for her? For the girlfriend, I mean. Hah. More like _Spender_."

It's silly, but has me giggling. "You mean Bella? She really likes it when he buys things for her, yeah."

He thinks about that for a moment, then says, "Bella... Like Bellatrix Lestrange? Funny, she has hair like Bellatrix, even."

I'm momentarily confused. "Bellatrix Le...?"

"Hm?" He doesn't seem to understand why I'm confused at first. Then: "Oh! _Harry Potter_."

"Oh." And suddenly the comparison is much more funny, and I'm laughing again. "I suppose their hair is similar, though Bella's is less wild."

"Shhh, you're ruining the image," he says, and closes his eyes, like he's imagining Bella cackling maniacally and hexing everyone.

That has me laughing again.

"Oh," Trevor says suddenly, his eyes snapping open. The humor is gone from his face.

"What?" The sudden change in his expression worries me.

"Your bus," he explains, craning his neck around toward the bus stop.

"Oh." Is that all? "Bus came a while ago," I tell him almost sheepishly.

He squints as he thinks. "That wasn't the last one for the night, was it?"

I actually have no idea. I don't keep track of the bus schedule. "Uh... I dunno. I... can't imagine it was, though?"

"When's the next one?"

Yeah, no idea.

"I dunno," I repeat.

He's still not looking at me, but I can see him biting his lip. Probably thinking about something—maybe how he's going to get to wherever it was he was going (home?).

"We can check," I offer at the same time he says:

"Come home with me?"

And oh.

_Oh_.

It's not in his words, it's not in any exaggerated movement.

It's in how casual he is.

How he _casually _looked back to make eye contact and ask; how he _casually_ asked it, like it was no big deal; how he casually held himself, not shrugging afterwards or darted his eyes away like he was ashamed—no.

It was that casual demeanor that told me there was more to those words than going back to his house. He didn't want to go home and joke some more with me. He—

I swallow.

Then I say: "Yeah."


	5. Chapter 5

The elevator momentarily takes me back—different time, different place. A time when this would be paid work, a place before—

Stop that thought there, Mikey. It’s forbidden. It’s taboo. It’s not something to remember. It’s gone. It’s _dead_.

That hurts.

This apartment should not have an elevator. I should not be on an elevator. I should be walking to his apar—

My eyes watch the little numbers above the elevator doors, the ones that glow to correspond with which floor the elevator is level with. I watch the numbers with a concentration that would leave witnesses to think that it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. Anything. Anything to bleach my thoughts to an oblivion of pure, white nothing. The numbers are glowing white, yes, so those will do nicely to start towards—

The elevator dings, the doors open. I notice Trevor giving me an odd look, and I don’t know what to make of it. I can’t tell if there’s thoughts behind his expression, like he’s wondering if he just made a terrible mistake, a horrendous lapse in judgement, and he’s rethinking his choices.

_I’m something worthy of rethinking_, I want to say.

I say nothing.

I continue to look at him. Maybe borderline staring. There’s a pulsing behind my throat and I realize it’s my heart, clambering up from my chest, beating out a fierce staccato behind my Adam’s apple.

“This is my floor,” he tells me, and offers me a small smile. A cute smile. The kind of smile that’s only for me, for this moment.

_You’re fine_, his smile tells me.

_There’s nothing worth rethinking_, he tells me without words, without even knowing what I’m thinking, without my even needing to speak the words aloud.

And I realize part of why I can’t speak is because that smile has trapped whatever words I may have blurted. It’s my unspoken words behind my throat, beating at my throat, wanting to be released. But I won’t let them out. They’ll ruin the moment, and that smile. And this moment. Whatever _this moment _is.

He leads me from the elevator to his apartment door, opens it with a key. I follow him in, feeling again like a well-trained dog following his master. And I wonder, not for the first time, if that’s all I’m good for. If that’s all I know to do—to follow instructions, unspoken or aloud.

“Well, it’s not much,” he says, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about his home.

Not me. Not me. He hasn’t criticized me. _Yet. _

That will come later, I’m sure.

I tear my eyes away from him and glance around the apartment. Small. A living area. I think I can see a small kitchen area. Two doors leading to other rooms. A bathroom and bedroom, most likely. I suppose it’s sparsely furnished. But it has something about it that makes it feel lived in. A blanket tossed over the back of the couch, not folded but not necessary tossed, like it had been put there in haste, but not without reason. A pile of mail on the coffee table, several mismatched coasters nearby, worn with use. Several DVD cases sitting on the TV stand, despite a small but neatly organized DVD stand, like someone had wanted a movie but wasn’t sure which one and had cycled through several before settling on one or giving up the cause and not bothering to tidy up the small mess left behind.

It’s a home. Not a motel. Not a hotel.

This is something new for me

(no, not new, but something I haven’t experienced in a while, and not since—not since—)

and I feel a flutter of momentary panic. I could’ve handled a motel, hotel, hostel, or any other sort of artificial living area, but this—

“Markus?” Trevor asks, and his voice has something in it, some sort of tone or note—I don’t know which, or what exactly.

I just know it’s soothing because he means it to be soothing, like he’s using his voice to calm a spooked animal.

I don’t know what to say in reply though. Words, they’ve never been my thing. Following, obeying, doing whatever people want—yeah, I can do that in spades. But anything else?

Maybe he understands. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he feels bad for the startled looking boy who’s just been invited to his home, because he smiles again. Just a small turn of his lips. But it’s enough.

It’s enough.

It tells me more than any novel of words could have.

And my expression must’ve told him more than any sentence could have in return, because he seems to think that it’s okay, it’s time—it’s a good time—to head towards one of the doors with nothing more than a small movement of his head, a nudge for me to follow.

And follow I do.

And there’s nothing special or unordinary about the bedroom. It’s clean, it’s organized, there’s no dirty clothes lining the floor. But still, it’s lived in. There are small pieces, small remnants, small reminders, of the people—Trevor—who lives here. A little statue on the dresser, of what I can’t say. Maybe a souvenir, maybe a gift.

And I’m focusing on anything but Trevor because I don’t know what to do now.

I mean, actually, I _do_. I do know what to do. Better than most, maybe. I know exactly what happens next, and how things proceed from there. I know how to step through this dance. I know its steps so well I could recite them while sleeping.

But there’s the fact that this is personal, not a business transaction. This is what _I _want as much as what _he_ wants.

And I don’t know how to proceed because I still—_still_—can’t honestly say just what I want anymore. Words, remember? I can’t use them well, can’t piece them together to unlock the puzzle of what goes on in my head.

I’m lucky, though. Trevor decides for us, and I find I’m grateful for that.

He sees my need of assistance. He sees that I need a nudge along, and he moves towards me.

His lips. His hands. The smell of—aftershave? Shampoo? Body wash? Toothpaste? Cologne? A mix of them?

I’m not sure which touches me first because one moment I’m alone and goggling at his bedroom, and the next, they’re all I feel, taste, see. We’re like the cord of a pair of neatly folded headphones, left alone for a moment and suddenly tangled to a frustrating degree.

There’s something soft beneath me to cushion my fall, and I think Trevor led us toward his bed, or else I did. We sprawl over it, and then we’re rolling around it, around each other. One moment he’s on top of me, and the next I’m on top of him, and in the mean time, our lips are never leaving the other’s skin. His lips found their way to my jaw, and mine are on his throat.

Clothes seem unnecessary, and they leave our bodies like leaves from a tree in autumn, piece by piece, unwanted for now, but something to consider again later, much later.

We undress ourselves, we undress each other. It’s his hands unbuttoning my shirt, and my hands untangling his hair from his as it slides over his head, and my hands pushing my own stubborn pants leg off, and his hand undoing his own jeans, until we are skin to skin and nothing in between. And still we are rolling, tumbling, free-wheeling across his sheets. His lips on my shoulder, mine on his hip, right where the bone swells away from his body.

And his hands, they wander. Across my body, down between my thighs. I let them, and rock against him, moving in time with—

Well, it’s not a rhythm.

I wonder, then, for the first time, if he’s ever been with another man.

_Girlfriend_, he said earlier, but I haven’t yet considered if that means he’s only ever been with _girlfriends. _But now I do.

There’s still a hum in my body, a lovely singe in my veins from shameless exploration of the other’s body with nothing but lips and hands, but his movements aren’t fitting the tempo we set earlier and—

“Have you done this before?” I have to ask.

His hand pauses, mid-stroke. Even though he may not have been doing as good a job as he could have been—as, perhaps, I would have liked—I feel a rush of lust that insists that I rock my hips forward, backward, forward, and continue the climb towards a climax.

His cheeks, already flushed from the same lust that clawed at me, blossomed a deeper shade of red.

That is answer enough.

“Of course I have,” he snaps. “Plenty of times.”

I don’t think he’s aware that his grip tightens around me, that I feel a small thrill zing through my spine.

There is no delicate way to phrase my question.

“I mean,” I try, “have you done this before with another man?”

And I’m not sure that I’m ashamed that my hips—with a mind of their own at this moment—slowly duck down, so that his hand slides up my shaft, still working towards that climax that might have been dismissed for the moment, but surely is not forgotten.

It takes me a moment to realize the small hiss comes from me, a noise of pure pleasure.

That, I am not ashamed of. Sex is one thing I feel more comfortable with. And sex and pleasure are two threads that should never be unwoven from one another.

“I,” he says, and he looks down at his hand, still wrapped so tightly around me.

“I,” he says again, as my traitorous hips buck once more, and he watches—almost fascinated—as his hand moves up, and then down, the full length of me because of my own ministrations and not his own.

As I said, it is answer enough.

“It’s not terribly different,” I tell him, moving my hips again.

But he lets go. He looks at me and for a second, I see uncertainty behind his eyes. Somehow, I know then that this is not going to be like before, where things only get better.

I am not good with words.

Luckily, for this, I don’t necessarily need words. I can show, I can move, I can express through body language.

Trevor, it turns out, is a bad student. Or I am a bad teacher. Maybe both. Maybe he feels too suddenly awkward, or I feel suddenly under too much pressure.

Our rhythm is lost, and we are no longer moving in sync. We are moving against each other, opposite one another. Bumping and fumbling where we should be sliding and caressing.

I don’t know who gives up first. Perhaps it’s an oddly mutual decision.

We’re laying next to one another on his bed, still naked, our arms touching but our fingers not reaching for more.

The silence is going to kill me.

“I, um,” he says, finally breaking it. “I’m okay with a movie for now. Maybe we can—well, maybe we can try again…”

He doesn’t seem able to finish his thought, to vocalize that last word—_later_.

But while I have never been good at using words, I can understand that much.

“Yeah,” I agree easily.

He gets up first, looking maybe a bit relieved, a bit embarrassed. I follow him from the bed and slip back into the clothes that we were so quick to remove from our bodies.

He leads me into his living room, gestures for me to sit on his couch. Asks if I have a preference of a movie, puts on a DVD. He fetches us drinks without my asking, glasses of soda with large ice cubes. They sit on the coasters as we listen to ballads sung by lovely actors and actresses.

“My— I wanted to see this one,” Trevor explains after the first song has been sung, and I realize it’s a musical we’re watching.

“I just bought it,” he explains further, almost nervously, “but haven’t watched it yet.”

He smiles again, that small upturn of his lips, and I know he’s embarrassed or uncomfortable about something.

I smile back, and watch him relax as he realizes he hasn’t said or done anything that makes me want to leave just yet.

The music is lovely, and I enjoy the story enough, but I never see the ending of the movie.

It isn’t until several hours later that I’ll realize it’s because I fell asleep. I fell asleep on Trevor, I guess. And he must’ve fallen asleep at some point, as well. Because we tangle as we sleep, wrapping more and more around the other throughout our nap, until it’s impossible to tell where one of us begins and the other ends.

It isn’t what I thought I would do when I agreed to come to Trevor’s apartment, but despite what happens next, I was content at that moment.


	6. Chapter 6

We sleep a while, apparently. The late evening sun is long fallen, and the living room is limned in nothing but the pale streams of moonlight and a faint glow from the TV—still turned on, but the screen black—when something gently nudges me.

I lazily blink my eyes open. My pillow isn’t as soft as I’m used to, yet it’s oddly comfortable. My neck is complaining at the awkward angle the rest of my body is resting at, though.

“Hey.”

I lift my head and peer around the dark. I realize then that it was not, in fact, a pillow that I was laying on. It was Trevor’s side. As things outside of sleep and dreams come to me, I start to become cognizant of the fact that one of my arms is crumpled under me, the other is wrapped loosely around some part of Trevor (his stomach?), and my legs are tangled in something—his legs, I think, but I don’t look to check. Instead, I’m looking at Trevor, who’s speaking to me, and trying to convince my brain to make sense of his words.

“Maybe we should move to the bed,” he says, voice thick with sleep.

The bed. We tried that, and we didn’t get very far. Trevor has never been with another man, does not know how to be with another man, and I’m too tired to try to take him through the steps—

But my sleep-addled brain finally makes logic of that sentence. Trevor isn’t asking me to his bed for sex. Or, at least, I don’t think he is. But my thoughts can’t find each other yet, still lost in my dreams somewhere, and I can’t figure out how to work my tongue and mouth to form words to ask anything. Instead, I nod.

“You have to get up first,” Trevor tells me, managing to sound amused.

And, again, I don’t have the thought capacity to use my mouth and question or say anything, so I wordlessly sit up. Hide a yawn behind my hand. Trevor gets up and takes a few steps, and I’m momentarily confused where he’s going despite what he just said because my brain is still not working.

He notices my hesitation and returns to my side, gently nudges me to my feet, leads me to his bedroom. My thoughts are locked on the hand wrapped around mine, the warmth of those fingers and his palm. I’m startled when he gives me a small shove that results in me sprawling across his bed. I feel like I’m sleep walking, everything fuzzy and out of focus.

I open my mouth and try to remember how to speak, to say that I’m not sure I’m up for the task of leading Trevor through his first time with another guy, but the bed jerks again as he flops into it, very ungracefully. He rolls so he’s facing me and it’s his turn to hide a yawn.

“This is more comfortable, right?” he asks, his eyes already drifting shut, his long eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.

I’m too tired to feel the full brunt of embarrassment I normally would, too relieved that I’ve been invited to his bed to sleep with no further expectations. Perhaps as a result of that, I don’t think about it—I just move so that our bodies curve against each other, laying close enough to Trevor that it’s his body heat that keeps me warm as I return to the blissful oblivion of my dreams.

***

Ice cold. Wet. _Freezing _cold. Everywhere. Drenched in it.

I gasp as my eyes shoot open. I feel like I’m drowning in a frosted winter lake. I wonder if I can break the sheet of ice that’s above me. I’m convinced that I’m not going to be able to breathe when I draw in breath. I think I’m going to suffocate.

But I sit up. There’s air. I’m breathing it and I feel it against my skin, chilling me and causing goosebumps to slide up over my skin. I’m wet, but I’m not drowning. I’m not even underwater.

I look around. The morning sun is slicing through the room, the bright rays almost painful to my eyes. Next to me, Trevor is sitting up, looking around. Equally confused as I am, apparently.

That’s when I see the woman, her face set into a fierce and stony expression, her eyes ablaze with rage. There’s a pitcher in her hand. The lid is removed, and she’s holding it at an angle that allows me to see that it’s empty.

Ah. I shiver, and understand now where the water came from.

“Wha?” Trevor mumbles, still piecing things together, still bleary and sleep-mussed.

“I,” the woman says, her voice firm and cold, “cannot believe this.”

Her voice jolts something in Trevor, and it hits me that I should be worried about how this woman got into the apartment. Does she have a key? I somehow doubt she’s a burglar. It sounds self-detrimental to wake the occupants of a house you’re trying to burglarize.

Trevor scrambles to his feet, an expression of disbelief on his face. He looks around for a shirt to cover his bare chest, and I wonder when that came off. The woman looks disgusted with him and throws a hand up in a dismissive gesture. _I can’t even deal with you_, it says. She turns to leave the bedroom with a disgusted scoff.

Trevor hurries to follow her, trying to figure out which hole of his shirt is appropriately sized for which part of his anatomy. I can only assume, then, that she is not a would-be thief. Yet, somehow, this does not comfort me.

“What are you doing here?” Trevor asks, a slight angle of something sharp in his voice. Not enough to cut, but enough to feel that the words aren’t entirely friendly.

“What am I doing here?” the woman asks, a more hysterical note to her voice, something close to incredulity. “I’m _sorry_—should I have knocked before I came into my apartment?”

Indeed, I am not comforted.

“It’s not your apartment,” Trevor says. “It’s mine. You were just staying with me, remember?”

“Yes, I think I remember that,” the woman retorts. “It was just you and me, not you and—who is that, exactly?”

I can only assume she gestures somehow to the bedroom and I shrivel, feeling like the intruder in this situation. Maybe if I make myself small enough, I can just disappear.

But I don’t disappear. Not even close.

So I move the blankets, hoping maybe I can hide myself under them. It’s childish and won’t solve anything, but my brain is still waking up, my thoughts feel a little sluggish, and maybe I’m hoping I can drift back off to sleep and find this has all been an odd dream. Pleasant at parts, and a shade away from a nightmare at others.

“Oh,” Trevor says, a bitter note resonating in that single word. “You take issue with finding me in my bed with someone else?”

There’s a sharp gasp, and I can only assume it’s from the woman. It’s a noise of betrayal, and it cuts at me like a blade.

I wonder if what Trevor and I did counts as true infidelity. Possibly. Probably.

These blankets are terrible, and I cannot hide under them. They are wet and cling to me, and it’s suffocating and I cannot stay under them, cannot convince them to make me vanish.

“I wanted to—I didn’t want—” the woman tries to say, but falters.

I am not so naïve as to believe that most people don’t cheat on their partners. Of course I’m not.

I used to allow people to rent my time and body in exchange for money. I never asked if the money that I received should have been spent on spouses or children. I never asked if someone was buying my time and body to escape a marriage.

It wasn’t my business to pry. It wasn’t my place to ask.

I know I played a hand in affairs and adultery before. I just never saw the offended party.

As it turns out, it’s a terrible thing to see.

After a moment of cutting silence, the woman speaks again.

“I wanted to come back and talk to you,” she says, sounding pleading and bitter at the same time.

“I thought we could fix things between us,” she says, her voice teetering away from its bitterness, more towards pleading.

“I thought we could get past this,” she says, all the sharp edges disappearing, replaced with a sad kind of vulnerability.

“I thought so, anyway,” she says, and she sounds on the verge of tears.

“How,” she says, her voice hardening with anger, “could you do this to me?”

_I’m something worth reconsidering,_ I wanted to tell Trevor yesterday. I should have said it.

I can’t hide under the blankets. I can’t hide at all. So I move until I’m as far away from the door as I can be; so I can’t glimpse anything in the small window of visibility I could have if I wanted; so I can’t see anything except what is in this room with me now. The blanket, heavy with water. The sheets, damp with moisture. The pillows, still indented from where our heads laid minutes before.

I pull my legs up to my chest, my back resting against the headboard, and I close my eyes.

“I didn’t do anything to you,” Trevor says, his voice too calm—the sort of false calm that comes from forced self-restraint. “I would have thought it was clear we were done when I found you and my best friend—in _my _bed.”

There’s a silence, so absolute that it has a knife-like sharpness to it.

I close my eyes and rest my forehead against my knees. Wrap my arms around myself.

I just want to disappear.

“I—” the woman tries to say, but she gets no further.

“I don’t want to argue,” Trevor interrupts her. He sounds so very tired, so very suddenly. “And I don’t want to fight. Just leave your key and get out.”

There’s another silence, thick with tension. I can only imagine the wordless conversation—is she using her eyes to argue or plead her case?

But after several long moments, I hear a faint metallic clatter, and then a door opening and closing.

She gave up her key, apparently. She left. She’s gone.

I let out a breath I did not realize I was holding.

Trevor returns to the bedroom, looking thoroughly disheveled. His hand is running through his hair, making it even look more mussed than sleep did. I peer up at him cautiously, still feeling nervous.

He sees me and freezes in the doorway. His hand falls out of his hair. It sticks up at odd angles.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and clears his throat. “I didn’t think...”

He drifts off, and I scramble for an explanation of what just happened.

_Girlfriend_, he said yesterday. His box of chocolates was for a girlfriend, right?

“That was...?” I try to ask, but my mouth, my throat, my tongue aren’t working. I can’t finish the question. My thoughts are moving too fast to allow me any brain activity to power my words.

“Ex-girlfriend,” Trevor says, offering me a tight, tense smile. “Newly so.”

“Oh,” I manage to say, a soft exhalation.

Trevor looks distracted, his own thoughts obliviously whirring, but for different reasons, over different things. I feel so very awkward and out of place, and I don’t belong here right now.

I try to express this to him, and I clear my throat. But my mind and my mouth are so very detached from one another right now. Words don’t come when I try to force them, so I clear my throat again and again, hoping at some point I’ll lodge the words free.

“I should go,” I finally manage, relaxing my stiff position to get to my feet.

Trevor looks surprised but doesn’t argue, moving aside from where he was leaning against the bedroom doorframe so I can pass. It isn’t until I’m slipping on my shoes and jacket, at the front door, about to leave, that I notice he’s followed me.

“Well,” Trevor says, a bit too loudly. He clears his throat, and I recognize it as the nervous gesture it is. It causes me to hesitate, to turn and face him.

“Well,” Trevor says again, “we never finished that movie. So you wanna come back over to finish watching it?”

I open and close and open my mouth.

“Friday, maybe? I get off around five, so would seven work for you?”

I close my mouth again. My tongue is as dry as sunbaked sand. But I manage to croak, “Yeah, seven works for me.”

There’s a flash of—something—that’s gone before I can register it. Then Trevor smiles, that small upturn of the one side of his mouth. “I’ll be waiting here for you then.”

“Okay,” I agree easily, yet again amazed at how his smiles offer me so much comfort.

But I still don’t feel like I belong here right now.

So I open the door to his apartment.

And I leave.


	7. Chapter 7

I don’t feel any more welcome at the place that I call home than I did in Trevor’s.

The space does not belong to me. The house is not mine to rent. I did not choose the furnishings. I do not purchase the groceries, or even cook meals in the small but fashionably decorated kitchen. 

I am a wanderer, allowed a bed to sleep on and a room to shelter in because of nothing more than charity.

That’s all you are, Mikey. A charity case.

Sometimes I’m able to make my way to my bedroom without interaction from my housemates. Those days are few and far between, but it’s a small comfort to avoid small talk and tense expressions.

I think, perhaps, I’m too harsh sometimes. They aren’t unfriendly people. They have, after all, allowed me to stay here with very few official expectations. Some days, I think they barely tolerate me, but there are others where we get along fine. Though, they always try to chat about “what’s new with me.”

I am terrible at small talk. I prefer the days where I can escape to my room without going through those tiring pleasantries.

Today is not one of those days.

Jess is sitting on the couch in the living room, not really watching TV, her expression glazed and eyes focused on a wall. The smell of cooking food is wafting from the kitchen, and I assume her mother is preparing something.

When I close the door behind me, Jess jerks out of her reverie and looks at me. “Markus.”

“Hey,” I offer.

“Hey,” she repeats. Her eyes dart to the doorframe that leads to the kitchen.

“Late breakfast?” I guess. It’s late morning still, I think.

“Early lunch,” she answers distractedly. “Mom and Dad are going out for something.”

“Oh,” I say.

A silence forms and I take it as cue to flee, but I don’t get more than three steps away before she says my name again.

“Yeah?” I turn to face her.

She hesitates. “Can we—talk?” Her voices lowers to a murmur. “When Mom and Dad are gone?”

The question surprises me, but before I can reply, her mother bustles into the room.

“Jess, we’re out of tomatoes. I’m going to have to pick some up from— Oh, hello, Markus.”

“Hey,” I say, somewhat awkwardly.

“Hungry?” she asks, using the spatula she’s still holding to gesture towards the kitchen. “I’m making grilled cheese. Nothing fancy, but Kay and I are trying to leave before noon.”

“Oh, uh,” I say. “Well.”

“I’ll leave a few on the counter in case you get hungry,” she assures me, smiling. She turns her eyes back to Jess. “I was saying, we’re out of tomatoes so I obviously can’t put them on your grilled cheese. I’ll pick some up on my way home.”

As Jess mutters that it’s fine, I mumble a “thanks” and flee for my room once more to gather some clean clothes. I may have had a rinse—of a sort—this morning, but it wasn’t exactly a cleansing shower. And there’s a nasty taste in my mouth I want to scrub out.

But as I head for the bathroom, the door opens and Kay steps out, hair wet and tousled, likely from a shower.

“Markus,” he greets me. There’s something in his tone that tells me that he has something to say. And even though I know I’m not going to like what it is, I stop to hear him out.

He takes that as cue to begin. “You, uh, didn’t come home last night.”

That isn’t a question and doesn’t necessarily require an answer. I frown at him instead, puzzled.

“You’re still—employed, right?” He sounds suspicious. “At the crêperie?”

I very much understand now why he brought up my overnight absence.

“Yes,” I reply slowly. Pause. Try to sound puzzled, and not let accusation into my tone, when I continue, “Why does my having a job have anything to do with what I do on the weekends?”

“It doesn’t,” Kay says quickly, flashing a quick, tense smile. “You just don’t usually stay out overnight. I was concerned.”

“There’s no need to be,” I tell him, mildly.

I see him weigh his options in his head. I know he wants to push for more answers. I don’t think he believes me. But in the end, he settles on another smile, brittle and polite. He steps aside and we move past each other. 

I close the door behind me and lock it.

It was just a comment—perhaps a nosy one—but I’m not in the mood to chance another. I take my time scrubbing my teeth and showering. I want Kay to leave for whatever plans he has before I leave the bathroom.

My mind won’t stop whirling, whirling, whirling.

_Concerned_.

Kay is _concerned._

His brand of concern is one that irritates me. His type of _concern_ is regarding what I do with other people—given my history, especially men—in their beds when offered money.

I wonder if he would be _concerned_ if I simply chose to have several uncommitted relationships at the same time. If there was no exchange of money involved, would he still be _concerned_ if I stayed the night at a different person’s home each night?

Probably, actually.

_Twenty-one isn’t too old to start over_, he told me when he offered me the spare room in his apartment. _Twenty-one is just getting started._

Kay has a very conservative opinion on just how I should go about this “start over.” And it seems I either don’t share his opinion, or I’m very bad at living up to expectations. Both, I expect.

The mirror is fogged with mist when I finally step out of the shower to dress. I don’t know for sure how long I’ve wasted, but I’m still hesitant to leave this safe bubble of privacy.

I didn’t exactly expect someone to be standing at the end of the hall leading to the bathroom, fingers tapping impatiently, waiting to lecture me about something or other. So I’m more than a little taken aback when I do finally step into the hall and see Jess peering around the corner of hallway.

She isn’t tapping her fingers impatiently and she doesn’t look demanding, but she still startles me.

“Jess,” I yelp.

“Sorry,” she rushes to apologize. “I don’t honestly know how long my parents are going to be gone. I wanted to catch you before you left, if you were leaving or something.”

“I’m not,” I tell her warily, relaxing marginally. Jess doesn’t usually seek me out like this.

“I—I didn’t know who else to ask,” she says bashfully, coming around the corner of the hall to face me. “I was too afraid to do it myself. You know my dad. He has connections with people from work and I didn’t want this getting back to him. He can be a bit judgmental, I guess? Protective, my mom calls it, but I don’t… Sorry, now I’m rambling.”

Yes, she is. I peer at her curiously. “Did you need something?”

She spews forth a string of words at the speed of sound, the syllables tumbling over one another. It sounds a little like _I need lock pro con dumb_.

I blink at her. “What?”

“I need,” she says again, slower this time, taking a deep breath, “a box of condoms. Or just a few. At least one.” She adds those last two sentences on hastily, like perhaps she thought her original request was too greedy.

Her face explodes with patches of red color. Mine does, too.

“Oh,” I say stupidly.

We stare at each other. She starts to wring her fingers.

“Yeah, okay,” I say finally, realizing she’s waiting for some kind of verbal answer. “Let me just…”

I gesture in the direction of my room and she nods, heads back to the living room.

My room isn’t tidy, but it isn’t necessarily messy, either. I don’t own a lot of belongings to clutter it up, but I’m not always the best at remembering to put everything away once I’m finished with it.

Despite what Kay may think, I have not fallen into my old occupation, and I don’t know if I have any spare condoms at the moment. I search through drawers and under various items sitting about. I find a handful of them, mismatched. Different companies, different logos. Some with flavored lubrication, some without. A yellow package with a banana on it.

That one grabs my attention, and I stare at it for a moment, a smile stealing its way across my face. There’s a memory here. A couple, actually. But one in particular comes to me in bright flashes of sleepy conversations and a curious boy who was intrigued by my bizarre ways. It’s bittersweet. The other memories follow it, leaving me awash in a spray of images, scents, sensations.

I allow myself only a moment to savor the fresh flood of memories, to cherish and ride the wave of emotions, before I cast them all aside.

It’s the past.

I’m trying to start over, even if I can’t do it the way Kay is hoping.

I don’t have any kind of bag or box to toss the condoms into. Overall, I think there are about ten. An impressive number for someone who hasn’t had any sort of relationship, exclusive or not, in several months.

I find Jess in the living room, moving around the room restlessly, nervously.

“Here,” I tell her, a little breathlessly from my rushing around. I hold out my cupped hands. She mimics the position and I dump the packets unceremoniously.

Her eyes widen as she looks at the small pile. I think she’s staring at the banana flavored one in particular.

“Thanks,” she tells me honestly, brightly, and only a little bashfully.

“Yeah,” I answer. I’m almost tempted to ask her if she has a boyfriend but decide against it. It’s not my business. I enjoy my privacy, and Kay’s meddling in it earlier today reminded me of that.

So I say nothing more.

I turn to head back to my room.

“You’re not,” Jess calls after me, loudly, and when I crane my neck around to look at her, her voice settles into a quieter tone, “going to tell my dad, are you?”

“I don’t have anything to tell him,” I tell her, surprised.

It’s the truth. I chose not to ask for details. For all I know, she’s getting condoms to use on bananas. Unlikely, but possible.

“Thanks,” she says again, relieved.

We part ways and I retreat to my room.

I know if Kay ever finds out about this, he will assume I am a bad influence. He will assume that it was my idea, that I corrupted his daughter with my lascivious nature. I will take the blame with little argument because I don’t know how to push, even when I need to.

I’m not one to fight. I’m the one who gives in. Or runs. 


	8. Chapter 8

I have a weak grasp on time. I measure time by the monotonous drone of work. There are days that I work, and days that I do not. I do not do anything particular or interesting on my days off, so I have no reason to keep track of the date. It does not matter what month or day of that month I currently reside in. Why would it matter? The only thing that I need to keep track of is whether or not I need to be at work by eight o’clock today.

It’s a new thing, an odd thing, then, that I’m hyperaware of the fact that it’s Monday. Usually there’s a dull understanding somewhere in the back of my mind that the first day of my work week is Monday, but I never give it more than a passing thought. If someone were to stop me on the street and ask what day it was, I wouldn’t think to say “Monday.” I would say “first day of work this week.” The fact that that day was “Monday” would be a detail that required too much effort to dredge up.

But right now, I am hyper-aware of the fact that it is Monday. That there are four days until Friday. I have to work today and four more days until Friday.

I think this is excitement. It seems melodramatic to say that I haven’t felt excited about anything that I nearly forget what it feels like, but that’s the most accurate way to describe it.

I think I’m excited.

It’s not an all-consuming excitement that eats away at the corners of my mind and infects me like a drug or poison and makes me until there is nothing else.

I can focus on work. I can clean. I can refill the napkin holders. I can manage the register. I can take orders. I can force my brittle, false smile at the customers who offer me small talk that I do not know how to respond to.

It’s more like the glow of a firefly on a dark night. Soft, ephemeral. Something that comes and goes. Sometimes I see it, and sometimes I don’t. But it’s something to look at in the dank darkness. It’s something to occasionally tickle my thoughts. It breaks up the monotony of my life.

And so, for a moment, I think perhaps my mind is playing a bizarre trick on me. I think that I allowed myself to manifest some sort of daydream.

But then the daydream speaks to me.

“Markus?”

I blink. I blink again.

My daydream is staring at me, expression as surprised as mine.

I open my mouth to speak but find it is confused. My autopilot function is used to a simple code with a small pool of replies while I am at work. Instead of asking, “What are you doing here?” or even clarifying “Are you real?” my mouth forms words it has been programmed to say in this building, in this setting.

“I recommend our daily special of lingonberries.”

It is only after the words have been issued from my mouth that I remember I am not behind the cash register. I am in the middle of emptying a trash can that is set off to the side of the dining area. Even my autopilot mode is confused by this sudden apparition. Normally, I would say “I’ll be right over to take your order” if there were no one behind the cash register, and only if prompted by the customer. Normally I would keep my eyes down and speak only if spoken to. Normally I wouldn’t have said anything.

But the fact that this customer—or daydream, I still am not sure which of the two it is yet—addressed me by name instead of following the usual script that customers use that I programmed myself to predict—that leaves me flailing.

“Lingonberries?” he asks. If he’s surprised by my reply, he does not seem it. He has a quirk to his lips, a boyish expression that might look ridiculous on most people but makes him look more innocent. “I’ll try that, then.”

My hands are full of fistfuls of plastic trash bag and I feel so stupid, so suddenly. I drop the bag back into the trash receptacle.

“I can—” I glance at the register and see no one is currently behind it.

“I need to—” I raise my hands as though the site of them is explanation enough. They must be, because the daydream nods and I retreat to wash them.

I honestly expect to find that he has disappeared as I scrub my hands in the industrial sink near the kitchen. But then I’m behind the register, and when I glance up, I’m staring up into his eyes, chips of lightly colored glass.

There is direct eye contact.

It lasts longer than I mean to, like his eyes have magnets and I can’t fight the pull of them.

“I— Special today— We have— Special is— I—”

My programming has short-circuited, the commands have been corrupted, and I have been glitched.

Trevor.

It is Trevor standing just on the other side of this counter, and I cannot figure out why he would be here. Why he would be here when I have never seen him enter this eatery before. I have not seen him prior to our random encounter at the amusement park, and I cannot understand why I would be on the other side of a counter with him now, trying to remember how to do a basic job of taking an order.

But Trevor is here.

And my words are infected with a virus.

He is not a daydream, and I am a broken record trying to play itself, skipping words and repeating them, with no end in sight. A robot set to complete a simple task and overloading. A catastrophe.

“I— There are— We have— We have— We have—”

His eyes dart away to the small chalkboard where the daily special—rotated seasonally—is written out. It isn’t an awkward gesture, it isn’t a purposeful gesture, like he’s too embarrassed to keep looking at me. Instead, it’s an honestly curious glance, like he’s charmed by the small things that mark this as a family-owned establishment.

But it saves me, nonetheless.

The intense focus of his eyes are no longer on me, and I can breathe. I can catch my breath. I can stop babbling long enough to collect my scattered thoughts and try to arrange them. My programming can update.

.

I’m careful when he turns to face me again. I keep my eyes fixed on a point to the side of him. I do not like eye contact. It makes me uncomfortable. It’s intense. It’s too much to handle.

And with that small release of pressure, I am able to remember that he already expressed interest in our daily special.

“Pancakes with lingonberries?” I ask.

“That sounds lovely,” he tells me honestly.

He does not mention my earlier stumbling and stuttering speech as I ring up his order and he pays. He lets it slide. His reasons I cannot fathom, but I am grateful.

“When do you get off for lunch?” he asks.

I glance at the clock and realize I should have started my lunch break ten minutes ago, right around the time Trevor first came in. However, many of my coworkers are younger than me, teenagers fresh out of school, who think it’s trendy to work in family owned eateries and who think that time restraints on breaks are merely suggestions and need not be taken seriously.

My coworker was supposed to be behind this register, taking orders and relaying them to the cook. But as usual, she allowed herself a “well needed” extra fifteen minutes on her lunch break.

I feel mildly irritated at her lack of courtesy, at the indifference she feels about my own need for a break, for a meal.

But what did you expect, Mikey? You never complain and never try to seriously chastise her. Instead of fighting for yourself, you roll over and play dead, hoping the tension and issue will pass you by without any further conflict.

Trevor is still waiting for an answer, I realize.

“Soon,” I say. “When my coworker gets back from her break.”

There’s a rumple in his eyebrows and I see that he’s disappointed. That surprises me.

“But,” I find myself hurrying on to explain, “she should be back any minute.”

His brow smooths, disappointment melting away, and there’s something almost eager in his voice when he asks, “Would you sit with me? When you can go on break, that is.”

There isn’t a reason to tell him _no, _and so I say, “Yes.”

He finds a seat at a table and not more than five minutes later, my coworker slips on an apron and returns to work.

(“Oh, did I take too long for break? My boyfriend called. He wanted to tell me...”

“Yeah, I understand.” 

“You’re the best, Markus!”)

And I’m joining Trevor at the table. It’s a smaller one, with only two seats. There aren’t many large tables available. Not many tables at all, honestly, since the place is relatively small and designed for quick bites and not many people linger.

“You aren’t going to eat?” Trevor asks when he sees I’m empty-handed.

I am fidgeting.

“No,” I say.

“Not hungry?”

Sometimes I ask the cook for an order of pancakes. I was told I’m allowed some for free, if I want them. Perks of working in the food industry. Sometimes I ask for an order, sometimes I don’t. I cannot imagine a world where I ask Kay or his wife to make food for me. I already owe them too much.

Today though, now though, I am too nervous to even think about food.

“Not really,” I tell him.

“I didn’t realize you worked here,” Trevor says.

I want to tell him that is obvious. We know almost nothing about one another, and I didn’t expect him to know where I work. But I recognize his words as an attempt at small talk.

“Yeah,” I say, even though there wasn’t a question attached to Trevor’s statement. It’s the only thing I can think to offer.

I hate small talk.

“I work at the mall,” Trevor says. “The one down—”

He gestures with his hand.

“Oh,” I say.

I am not good at this small talk business and I am regretting that I took him up on this offer. I should have turned him down. I can’t imagine he’s going to have a good opinion of me after he leaves, between my stuttering sentences earlier and my clipped replies now.

I am no good with words.

“I’m on my meal break, too,” Trevor tells me. “I asked a co-worker for recommendations and he told me about this place. ‘Have you been to Cut the Crepe? Oh, man, you gotta go! Best pancakes in the area!’”

I recognize this as an attempt to start a conversation, but I have no passion for this eatery. I work here because I need money, and because they would hire me.

I try something new. Instead of taking the topic he’s offered me and continuing it, I try to go for a different one.

“Do you usually get something to eat at the mall?”

“Ah,” he says, a shadow flittering across his expression. “Well, no, actually. I normally bring lunch, but I didn’t think to make my own this morning before I left. Normally, my girlfriend—uh, ex-girlfriend—makes it for me.”

It is suddenly so very awkward and I curse myself. This is what I get for doing something different. This is what I get for trying to keep small talk going.

“Oh,” I say in a small voice.

I can see his expression shifting. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I can tell he’s trying to figure something out.

“You didn’t— It wasn’t because of you,” he says quickly. “We were already broken up when— I didn’t think she would come back to the apartment again. The amusement park— we broke up there.”

A part of me appreciates the explanation, told in jumbled pieces. I don’t know how I’d feel if they broke up because his ex-girlfriend thought he cheated on her with me. I suppose that part of me is relieved. But another part of me—a larger part of me—finds this conversation too awkward to tolerate. I’d rather not know. I’d rather remain oblivious than hear about it, especially since I had to witness part of it.

“Okay,” I say.

He lets out a small exhale. After a small beat, he says, “I didn’t, uh, know you worked here. Honestly. I wasn’t trying to stalk you or anything. I mean,” he adds hastily, “I’m glad I ran into you again.”

“You are?” Surprise urges me to speak. I didn’t think he was stalking me. The town isn’t so small that running into the same stranger time and time again is coincidence, but it also isn’t so large that it doesn’t happen every now and then. I’m not surprised to run into him, but I am surprised that he’s happy to see me again.

“Yeah,” he enthuses. And then, hesitantly, almost shyly, he adds, “Aren’t you?”

“I am,” I tell him. And it’s the truth.

He smiles at me, that small curve of the one side of his mouth. I smile back.

“Do you want a bite of this?” he asks, gesturing towards his forgotten pancakes. “I can get another fork.”

“Oh, no, I—”

I am still too nervous to have an appetite, but Trevor is already halfway across the dining area. He asks my coworker for a spare fork, she obliges, and Trevor returns, holding it up triumphantly like it’s a trophy he’s just won in the Olympics.

“For you,” he says, offering it to me when he sits down again.

I take it, even though I still have no appetite. He pushes his plate closer towards me, smiling, waiting and watching, like I’m a stray kitten he’s found and this is a test of trust—if the kitten will come close enough to be fed, he has won it over.

I cannot refuse, I find. Trevor is too eager and I have no excuse other than a lack of hunger. I cut off a small bite of a pancake and put it to my mouth. The lingonberries are tart, only mildly sweet, perfectly ripened.

“Is it good?” Trevor asks, watching me for a reaction.

“Yeah,” I answer, smiling at his enthusiasm. “It’s good.”

He lets out a relieved breath like he’s just passed an impossible test.

“But you’re the one who bought it,” I tell him. I feel almost overwhelmed by his odd desire for my approval. “You’re the one who’s supposed to think it’s good. I work here. I can get them whenever.”

Trevor looks like I’ve severely chastised him. “I didn’t think about— You’re right. Of course, you’re right. That was stupid of me. Sorry, I didn’t think about the fact that you probably get these for free all the time.”

He looks so dejected, poking at another bite of his pancakes.

With a small sigh, I reach to grab another small bite. I do not miss how Trevor is watching me, curious.

“They’re good,” I explain.

He beams, a smile too bright for his face to contain. It illuminates the room.

My face is warm.

“You’re blushing,” he notes.

“No,” I say, ducking my head.

“You are,” he marvels. “Why?”

“The pancakes,” I mumble. “They’re really good.”

Trevor laughs, and my embarrassment nearly washes me away. But I like that laugh, quite a bit. It’s a nice laugh.

It isn’t long before Trevor says he needs to leave to head back to work, and I can’t object because my break is almost over, too.

He leaves, and I return to work. It’s Monday, I remember. Normally I wouldn’t remember what day of the week it is, but it’s Monday. Only four days away from Friday.

I am walking on air.


	9. Chapter 9

I do not like eating as a family. Or perhaps, more accurately, I do not like eating with someone else’s family.

“Here you are, dear.”

I accept the plate of cheese toast from Carol and she takes a seat next to Kay, opening a yogurt.

I thought my lack of interest in eating anything other than toast would somehow articulate my lack of a desire to sit with Kay and his family at breakfast. Instead, Carol is under the assumption that cheese toast is my favorite food, and is sure to prepare me a plate whenever possible to “help start my day.”

Kay is staring at me, his eyes narrowed. In thought or irritation, I’m not sure.

“Thank you,” I tell his wife hastily, in case he thinks me rude.

She looks up from her yogurt and smiles.

I resume chewing on my toast.

And Kay is still looking at me. Apparently, he wasn’t sending me an irritated look of disapproval for lacking manners.

“Any plans for this weekend?” he asks casually.

I swallow my toast and try to swallow down my irritation with it.

I do not like Kay’s version of guidance. I’m not sure I need it. I’m not sure I want it.

I have no reason to lie, yet I feel an odd desire to, merely so he can’t continue to poke around the tatters of my social life.

I like my privacy.

“Going to a friend’s after work,” I mumble around another bite of toast.

“A friend?” Kay repeats.

He does not mean for it to be condescending—I don’t think so, anyway—but it rubs me wrong anyway.

Markus, the social reject. Markus, who has no friends. Markus, who thinks that the only kind of “friend” worth having is one who pays him for sex.

“Yes,” I reply, trying to keep my voice level. “A friend.”

“Where’d you meet this friend?” Kay pushes, still trying for casual, but now sounding suspicious.

Or maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe I’m bitter about things that I shouldn’t feel bitter about. Maybe he is just concerned. Maybe I’m so jaded that I’ve put a filter on the world that makes it look like everything is a personal attack.

“At the amusement park. With Spencer.”

Kay hums.

“I think it’s good for you to get out of the house,” Jess says from beside me, her eyes glued to her phone, a spoonful of cereal in one hand.

It’s her turn to earn Kay’s frown and disapproval. “Please put that away at the table.”

She gives a long-suffering sigh and pretends to put it in her pocket, laying it on a thigh instead, the fingers of one of her hands still poking at its screen.

Maybe she’s texting her boyfriend.

But it’s none of my business.

Kay still casts me quick glances, suspicion fluttering in and out of his eyes.

My mood curdles.

***

It is a long day. I can only be grateful it’s the last day of my work week.

There are more customers than usual. Everyone is short tempered. I cannot do anything right. I manage to take someone’s order as “strawberry pancakes” instead of “blueberry pancakes.” I receive a lecture from my boss about my attentiveness. I offer to take the strawberry pancakes that the customer returned as my free meal for lunch.

I am stressed. I am agitated. Eating the returned pancakes—cold and soggy by my meal break—does not cheer me. I choke down every bite.

When I have an hour to go, I start counting down the minutes until my shift ends.

Forty-seven.

I empty the trash cans.

Forty-one.

Refill the napkins in the holders at the tables.

Thirty-five.

Wipe down table surfaces between customers.

Twenty-three.

The chime on the door jingles. Another customer. A quick glance at the register tells me that my co-worker has wandered off.

Seventeen.

I turn away from the customer and the register to reign in my shortening temper. Remind myself that I need a job, and I cannot refuse to work because I have bad days.

Even if I have more bad days than good. 

Fifteen.

“Hey.”

I wanted the new customer to see my turned back and understand that I was not going to take their order; that they would have to hunt down my missing coworker. I am annoyed at the persistence. I am just so agitated today.

I whirl, mouth open, ready to let loose a curt greeting, but it’s not just any customer. It’s not a stranger. Not a complete one, anyway.

It’s Trevor.

“Hello,” I say, with much more bite in my voice than I intended to sharpen it with. My brain catches up with the fact that I’m speaking to Trevor and not another demanding customer, but my mouth doesn’t, apparently.

He looks taken aback, startled, shocked, like he thought he was reaching to pet a playful puppy and found an aggressively rabid mutt instead.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I wasn’t—I’m not trying to make it seem like I’m following you. I’m didn’t—I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable.”

I actually didn’t get a chance to think about the _why _of his appearance at my work. I suppose this time, he came here on purpose, to see me, if he didn’t immediately head for the register.

“I just thought—” He hesitates, looking for something in my expression. Then, tentatively: “Well, when does your shift end?”

“Twelve minutes,” I reply on autopilot, my brain ticking down those seconds, even now, even distracted, even while speaking to Trevor.

That is testament enough as to how eager I am to leave, considering normally I have such a weak grasp on the hour that I have to look out a window to even take a guess as to whether it’s morning or night.

“I just got off work,” Trevor says. “I just—wanted to ask if you get off soon.”

“Eleven minutes,” I confirm.

“Well,” he says. And then he pauses to wipe his hands on the fabric of his trousers. I marvel at the random gesture before I realize his hands must be sweaty.

Am I... Do I make him nervous?

The thought hits me like a wave. It feels like my feet lift off the ground, like my stomach does a flip from a sudden change in direction, drowning me for a moment, washing away my irritation. I’m not used to making people nervous. _I’m _the nervous one.

“I was wondering if you’d want to walk back to my apartment with me,” Trevor says.

I stare at him, confused.

“For our movie,” he says, sounding disheartened at my expression.

I was eager for Friday at the start of the week. Now it’s Friday, and I have been so focused on getting through the long hours of my shift, that I forgot I have something to look forward to _after _my shift.

“It’s... it’s only four,” I stammer out, feeling oddly embarrassed for forgetting. We originally agreed to meet up at seven.

“Yes, well.” Trevor wipes his hands on his pants legs again. I stare, marveling yet again at that gesture.

“I was hoping you’d want to come over a little early, maybe?” he asks, ducking his head and peering at me from under his eyelashes, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck, nervous and fidgety like he’s asking a parent permission to break curfew.

It’s such a hesitant question. A different sort of hesitancy than I’m used to.

I’m used to people pausing awkwardly, as though I were an afterthought they didn’t want to muse over. Like they feel too guilty not to say or ask something, but want me to say no.

This is shy. This is soft. This is Trevor _afraid_ that I’ll say no.

He’s honestly excited.

I feel so overwhelmed by that simple fact, there are butterflies whispering in my chest, a warm, pleasant feeling that slowly spreads to my face.

“You’re blushing,” he points out, a hand still on the back of his neck.

“No.” I stare at anything but him.

“Yes,” he corrects.

“No,” I repeat.

“It’s cute.”

“No,” I repeat again, feeling my face grow hotter from his attention.

“Are you saying ‘no, you aren’t blushing,’ or ‘no, you won’t walk home with me’?”

I stare at the floor, willing my face to cool.

“Will you?” he asks again.

And I cannot refuse.

***

“Do you jog a lot?”

We haven’t walked very far. Cut the Crepe is only a block behind us when Trevor asks me this bizarre, random question. My eyes slide towards him in a confused side glance. “Why?”

“I’ll race you,” he tells me.

And that’s all the warning I get before he actually starts jogging.

I’m standing stock still, staring after him, waiting for the punch line, waiting for the joke. But Trevor doesn’t turn around and come back towards me. He just… keeps jogging.

After half a block, he finally turns around to look at me, jogging in place, looking at me expectantly.

I walk towards him.

He looks equal measures confused and disappointed when I catch up to him. “I said jog.”

“You can jog,” I tell him as I continue walking. “I’ll meet you there.”

Apparently, Trevor wants to keep pace with me, even though I’m walking. He’s… sort of doing a funny walk where his legs come up higher than necessary, like he’s comically pantomiming someone who’s running in place, while sort of moving as he does it.

“It’s a race,” he informs me.

“You’ll win.”

“That’s not very competitive.”

“It’s not like there’s an exciting prize waiting at the end.”

His expression crumples, and I feel like I’ve just kicked a friendly dog. I’m not sure how I always manage to do it, but my words never match what I mean, and usually wind up sharper than I intend. Sharper tones, sharper meaning.

“You’re not excited for the movie, then?” he asks.

I realize, much too belatedly, how he misinterpreted my words.

“I am,” I tell him.

“Just not the race?” he persists, in a tone that suggests the two are somehow directly linked to one another, and it’s impossible to dislike one without disliking the idea of the other.

I don’t know that I trust my words.

But before I can figure out what to say, Trevor’s odd, exaggerated walking-jog stops. “Oh.”

I glance at him.

He clenches his hand into a fist and taps it against his forehead. “I didn’t even think about stretching. We’d pull muscles. Sorry, sorry, you’re right.”

I’m not sure what I suggested that I’m “right.” I continue to stare in his direction.

“Next time,” he offers. “We’ll stretch out beforehand.”

“Yeah,” I agree, not even sure just what I’m agreeing to.

But he smiles, bright and happy, and I decide it doesn’t matter.

At least he doesn’t look like a kicked puppy anymore.

***

Trevor freezes with his key still in the door of his apartment.

“It—it’s a little rough,” he tells me quickly. “I usually clean on the weekends. I meant to do some spot-cleaning before I left for work this morning, but I forgot.”

I blink at him.

“Okay,” he corrects, his face flushing. “My ex-girlfriend used to clean on the weekends. I’m still... trying to figure out a routine.”

I nod. I don’t know why I do, but it appeases him. He opens the door and steps inside, and I follow.

And I understand what he means by “rough.” There are empty take out containers piled on the coffee table in the living room, overflowing and spilling on to the carpeted floor. There’s another small stack next to the couch.

Trevor is hastily restacking the ones that tumbled off the table, piling them in his arms and rushing for the trash.

“Just sit while I clean this up!” he calls from the kitchen area.

I look at the couch, but there’s a pizza box open across the couch. There are still three slices of pizza.

“Oh, I fell asleep on the couch last night,” Trevor says, coughing into his fist. “I—uh—forgot to put that away before work.”

“For spot cleaning,” I clarify.

He looks abashed. “Might’ve only needed to clean a few spots.”

I look from the table to the area next to the couch to the couch itself. “Just three?”

He clears his throat and rushes to close the pizza box, moving towards the fresh trash bag he brought from the kitchen.

“My, uh, ex-girlfriend used to do the cooking,” he admits. “I’ve just been living on take out. And since she’s not here to make me, uh, stay on top of cleaning…”

He drifts off, looks away from me, and snags more empty containers from the coffee table to shove into the bag.

I feel useless, so I help.

“You don’t have to—” he protests.

“It’s fine,” I cut him off. “Faster this way, right?”

He shrugs, grabs another handful of empty containers from the table and doesn’t look at me.

I stare at him.

“What?” he mumbles, giving me a quick glance.

“You’re blushing,” I say.

“Not,” he mutters, taking a little longer than necessary to push a container down into the quickly filling trash bag with his face turned away.

“You are,” I press, enjoying the way I’ve turned the tables.

He shrugs, gives me another quick glance, scans my smiling face. “I wanted to make a better first impression than this.”

“First impression?” I repeat, not understanding.

“Yeah, you know.” He gestures around the apartment. “First impression.”

I am very confused. “I’ve been here before.”

Trevor winces. “Okay, I was hoping we could pretend like _this _was your first impression. I mean last time…”

He drifts off and I fight my own wince.

“I made an ass out of myself last time,” he says. “Sorry.”

I nod. I’m good at nodding when I don’t know what to say.

The various empty take out containers are cleaned up, and Trevor ties the bag off, puts it next to the trash can in his kitchen.

“I’ll take it out later, after you leave,” he tells me.

I eye him skeptically.

“I will,” he insists. “Same movie as last time?”

“Yeah,” I agree.

He puts on the DVD, and we sit on the couch. The opening credits start to play, and Trevor jumps to his feet, startling me.

“Sorry, I’m so rude! I forgot!”

He rushes into the kitchen. I look between the kitchen entrance and the TV, like the singing actress currently crooning on the set will break character and tell me what, exactly, is so rude.

Trevor returns, offers me a glass filled with something yellow. I take it.

“Oh. Do you like lemonade? Do you want a drink?”

I stare at the glass. I look up at him.

He cringes, his shoulders dropping. “I’m so bad at this. I did that backwards. Should’ve asked before I got it. I guess I’m just—nervous. This is new, you know?”

I can’t say I’d make a spectacular host if I invited someone over to my place—if I had my own place—so I nod. Take a sip. “I like lemonade just fine.”

He looks relieved and moves to retake his seat next to me. He throws his arm across the back of the couch and his fingers brush my shoulder. He snatches it back.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

I am confused once more. “For?”

He studies me, his expression tentative. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Okay,” I say slowly and turn my attention back to the movie. After another minute, he places his arm across the back of the couch again, slowly, like he’s afraid if he touches my shoulder, I’ll detonate like some kind of touch-activated bomb.

I’m really not sure what’s gotten into him. I decide my best option is to keep watching the movie. Not like I know what to say—if there’s anything to say—anyway.

Something like another ten minutes pass, and I relax as I get into the movie. We had gotten a little further last time we tried to watch, but—

“Flowers!” Trevor bursts out, startling me again.

I look at him. He looks deeply upset about something. “What?”

“Flowers,” he repeats. “Do you want some?”

“Uh?” I try to figure where the question came from, but I’m honestly not sure. There hasn’t been any flowers in the movie.

I don’t have a green thumb, but I think Carol has a small garden in the back yard. I honestly should show more appreciation for her and Kay’s hospitality. I know it’s possible to grow the flower as a plant from the flower itself. I’m not sure how, though. Or, I suppose, if it’s even possible with all variations of flowers. But I suppose Trevor knows which can and can’t if he’s offering.

I’m still not sure where the sudden question came from.

“Oh... yeah, sure,” I tell Trevor. “If you have some.”

He looks pained. “I knew you might want some. I’m sorry, I—”

He cuts himself off short and looks at his front door. His gaze flicks between me, the TV, and the door, cycling fast, faster. Me, TV, door, me, TV, door, me TV door, meTVdoor.

Finally, he lets out a long-suffering noise.

“Next time,” he says. And then he repeats, nodding firmly, “Next time.” And he does it again, nodding firmly, “Next time. I promise I’ll have flowers for you.”

“Okay,” I say, also glancing at the door curiously. I don’t know why Trevor was looking at it so keenly. I can only imagine that perhaps he has a small communal or private yard outside, and forgot the flowers there.

We resume watching the movie. And again, ten minutes later, when I’m starting to focus on the story—

Trevor turns his body so he’s full facing me. He takes a deep breath. “I have a question for you.”

I already know this is not going to be a question I expect, like “how do you like the movie? Or “which song or character is your favorite?” No, somehow I have a gut feeling this is going to be a question like the flowers, and the drinks—

“What’re some good porns I can watch? Like, gay porns?”

Yet still, he manages to throw me for a loop. I was even expecting an odd question, but I wasn’t expecting _that_.

“What?” I ask carefully, like with just the wrong word, he’ll spontaneously combust. Honestly, with the rate this night is going, it wouldn’t surprise me.

“You’re gay, right?”

Also not a question I thought I’d be answering tonight. “I—”

He does not give me time to answer, but rushes on, like if he waits too long to get this—whatever _this_ is—off his chest, he won’t be able to say it. Honestly, I think I would rather he lose his courage. But on he plows, waiting less than a second before continuing, “So you watch gay porn, right?”

“I—”

Again, he does not wait for me to reply, but charges on. “So, what would you recommend?”

“I—”

“It’s for research,” he adds quickly.

I stare at him.

“Research?” I repeat, before I can stop myself.

He nods fervently.

“I—”

“I just thought it’d be good to be prepared,” he blurts.

I’m staring again.

“So?” he prompts.

I wait, in case he has anything else he wants to add. And then I tell him, “I don’t know.”

He deflates. And despite the eccentric topic of the conversation, I feel a little bad for yet again causing him disappointment.

I don’t know what X-rated movies to offer. I don’t watch them. I don’t bother.

My life was a pornographic film for several months. Why would I need to watch other people?

“There’s websites, right?” I hazard. I have no idea what I’m talking about. “And, uh, video stores that only sell those kinds of movies, right? You could, um, maybe go there and, uh, ask for recommendations.”

He shrugs, but his expression isn’t as crumpled. “Yeah, I suppose.”

I have nothing more to say, but now things feel awkward. We never bothered to pause the movie, and the sound of the voices from the characters fill the room.

I was just about to stiffly turn back to the TV when—

“Oh, shit.” Trevor leaps up.

I eye him warily.

He dashes for the kitchen, muttering, “Popcorn. I forgot popcorn.”

Oh. Right. Honestly, I forgot popcorn, too, I suppose. I can’t say that I want any, just that I forgot that popcorn was sometimes an option to accompany a movie.

“It’s fine,” I call, but I don’t have a naturally loud voice. And over the racket he’s making—opening and slamming cupboards, still loudly muttering “popcorn, popcorn, where do I keep the popcorn”—I don’t think he can hear me.

So I wait. I find the remote and pause the movie, and I wait, listening to the sound of the kernels popping, the ding of the timer, the sound of Trevor transferring it to a bowl.

Finally, he emerges with a ridiculously large bowl of popcorn.

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

He frowns as he sits back down next to me. “You don’t want any?”

“I... guess I’ll have some.” Still, I eye the overly large bowl like it’s a challenge I can’t figure out.

“What’s wrong?” Trevor tosses a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

“I think... if I were just a little more flexible, I could fit in that bowl.”

Trevor bursts into laughter. He laughs so hard he has to put the bowl on the table.

I stare at him, almost fascinated, not sure what I said that was so funny, but not disliking its consequences.

Trevor laughs so hard he coughs. He coughs and coughs, clears his throat, reaches for his glass of lemonade, takes a sip, wipes his mouth, and looks at me. He starts laughing again. Not as hard, but a soft, rumbling chuckle. He leans towards me.

And kisses me.

I’m surprised. I’m not surprised. I don’t know what I am. I feel like I had so many surprises in the last hour with this guy that I can’t tell what does and doesn’t surprise me when it comes to him right now.

But I kiss back.

His fingers are soft for a guy’s. They skim over my collar bone, slide up my neck, ruffle my hair.

He pulls back, tense all of a sudden.

“Is—is this okay?” he asks, nervous.

I try to fight a smile and fail, even though I don’t know if he’s asking if it’s okay to kiss me or if he’s any good at it. But he’s nervous. Because of _me_. A fact I still can’t get over. 

“Yes,” I say.

He leans in again.

And I meet him halfway.


	10. Chapter 10

I am careful, so very careful, to be as quiet as possible as I slip up the stairs, creep towards my room. And I don’t know how he does it. Maybe he has some odd sixth sense.

“Markus?”

But Kay knows I’m home.

I sigh, a soft exhalation. “Yes?”

“It’s late.”

That’s obvious.

“I thought you went to a friend’s?” Kay’s voice is rough with sleep. His voice is low as he moves closer towards me, away from the threshold of his bedroom.

“I did,” I say, keeping my voice just as quiet.

“Why are you back so late? Did you— Are you—?”

Did I sleep with my “friend”? Am I sleeping with him? Was that what he was trying to ask?

No, and no. Or, at least, not yet. Or maybe not at all. I’m honestly not even sure. It’s true that Trevor and I spent some time tangled around each other, but he pulled back after a while. We returned to the movie. Oddly enough, there weren’t any more awkward questions or random outbursts. We even watched two more movies, thus why I came home late.

I don’t think Kay will easily accept that as an answer. I’m again irritated that I need to defend myself at all, considering it’s my private life he’s poking at.

Kay swipes at his face. Finally asks, “Did you run into trouble? Are you alright?”

I know that was not what he originally wanted to ask, but these questions are less intrusive, and I can accept them as substitutions of what Kay really wants to know.

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

I can see Kay nod in the dim light. The silence stretches, and Kay is just staring at me. I don’t think he has anything else to say, so I turn towards my room.

But Kay’s low voice halts me again. “Maybe you should get a cellphone.”

It seems like a random thing to suggest. “I don’t need one, though.”

“In the future,” Kay tells me, a hint of frustration entering his tone, “you can just shoot me a text that you’ll be home late, or an idea of when you’ll be home.”

An indignant flush creeps up my neck. I am not a child for him to babysit, to monitor. I’m glad for the gloom. Kay won’t be able to see it. He won’t be able to start an argument because of my offense.

“I just—we worry, alright? You aren’t usually out so late. We were up late to make sure you were fine when you got home.”

Some of my irritation is beaten down with a wave of guilt. I mutter, “I did say I was going to be out late.”

“Yeah, but it’s after midnight.”

The chastisement in his tone has my hackles on edge again, but I mumble, “Sorry.”

“Just… think about it. It’d be more convenient for you to have a cellphone.”

I nod, but I already know I won’t get one.

Kay yawns and turns away. “Alright. Goodnight.”

We part ways, retreating into our bedrooms. I try not to let irritation to cling to me, to leave it at the door, so to speak, but it’s hard.

I am not a child. I am not a ward. I do not need babysitting. I do not need monitoring. Kay is not my family. Kay has no responsibility for me.

A part of me knows that I should feel some sort of gratitude that there are people who care enough to stay up to check in on me when I’m out late; who worry about my well-being; who are trying to guide me towards a better future.

But I never asked for someone to do any of that, and instead of a comfort, it is a rope of responsibility that locks in place around my neck, feeling suspiciously like a noose. It makes me feel caged, agitated, trapped, frustrated.

I wonder, as I undress, how much longer Kay will allow me to live here. I don’t have any other options—there is literally nobody else who would allow me to live with them—and I can’t afford my own place right now. But—

My name tag is missing.

I check the pockets of my jeans and jacket again to make sure I didn’t miss a pocket in my original search. But no. It’s missing.

My mind spins.

The last time I had it, I was taking it off and putting it in my pocket as I was leaving the restaurant.

Trevor’s.

It’s probably at Trevor’s.

I feel like such an idiot.

I’ll have to ask my boss for another one.

Except I don’t want to. I’ll feel like even more of an idiot, especially after how scatter-brained I was earlier today—well, yesterday. Kay wasn’t lying when he said it was after midnight. My boss even gave me a lecture. I don’t feel like asking him to make me another name tag. I don’t want another lecture.

I don’t know how many more lectures I can take in such a short period of time.

I have to return to Trevor’s for the name tag.

***

I don’t summon the courage to do so until Sunday evening.

It’s last minute, but the more I think about it, the more anxious I became. As Kay pointed out, I don’t have a cellphone to call Trevor. Not that it matters, since I don’t have his number. I don’t have _any _contact information for Trevor, actually. I know how to get to his apartment and that’s it.

So I know I’ll have to just show up at his apartment and knock on his door.

Except that’s not something I do. I don’t do surprise visits. Or visits, in general. Not unless I’ve been invited and have some reason to go.

So I let the hours of the weekend tick by, and it isn’t until the later hours of Sunday that I realize it’s now or never. And my anxiety at the thought of another lecture manages to momentarily trump the anxiety I feel at the idea of showing up at someone’s apartment uninvited.

Kay and his wife went out somewhere. Jess isn’t home either so there’s nobody to ask questions about where I’m going or what I’m doing.

I take it and slip out of the house.

It turns out, convincing my feet to walk to Trevor’s apartment is easy.

It’s when I raise my knuckles to rap on the door that anxiety hits me in a powerful wave and I think that yes, actually, I will take my boss’ lecture over this.

I lower my hand.

And so I stand in the hallway of Trevor’s apartment complex, staring at the numbers on his door. I can only hope a neighbor doesn’t choose this moment to walk out and see me, because I’m sure I look like the sort of creepy stalker people see in movies. My height has my eye level with the peep hole, and I realize passersby could also think I’m trying to peer into Trevor’s apartment.

I take a step back.

I realize, on some sort of level, that this is ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. There isn’t anyone else around to see me and judge me, and I’m still taking these precautions.

I still need to knock.

Except I don’t. The door opens.

“Oh,” Trevor says, surprised. “Markus.”

I’m not ready for this. I’m not prepared. I didn’t even gather up my courage to knock yet.

“Hi,” I say, because that’s all I can handle yet.

Trevor peers at me.

He waits for me to say something.

I say nothing.

“Well,” he tells me finally, “I was about to take my trash down, but I can do that later.”

“Oh, no, I don’t want to intrude.”

But Trevor backs up, and I notice the trash bag that was in his hand. He sets it down against the wall a few paces away from the door.

“It’s fine. Come in.”

I hesitantly enter his apartment and he shuts the door behind us. I don’t know what to say, so I clear my throat and try for a joke. “You actually take your trash out?”

He grows sheepish. “Sometimes. When it starts to pile up.”

I look at him curiously and he shrugs and makes a tiny, self-conscious gesture towards his kitchen. I peer inside and see—

“You, uh, starting a collection?”

Trevor shrugs, his face turning pink, frowning in such an embarrassed way that I manage to forget that I was anxious.

It’s easier to have courage when you have no reason to be afraid. And Trevor is anything but scary.

“How do you make so much trash?” I ask because _seriously_. There’s a mountain of trash bags next to the trash can in his kitchen. I count seven from where I’m standing, but the can probably hides some from view.

“Well,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I guess you make less trash cooking your own food. Mostly, it’s just washing pots and pans. But take out containers are so big…”

I snort on laughter.

He smiles. “Did you come over for something, by the way?”

“Oh, yeah. I think I forgot my name tag here.”

Trevor moves towards the living room. “Probably slipped between the couch cushions or something.”

I follow him, and he pulls the cushions off his couch.

“Oh,” I say in a small voice. “Well, I’m sure it’s in there. I think a representative from the city of Atlantis will be by soon to ask for their lost treasure back.”

I’ve never seen a couch so full of… things. There’s a small, plastic plate; empty glass bottles of various sized and colors, one of which looks like there’s actually a note inside of it; some cups; various forks and spoons, one of which looks like it’s actually gold.

Trevor clears his throat. “My, uh, ex-girlfriend never cleaned out the couch.”

That was evident. “I… can tell.”

“And,” he continues, lifting a hand to his mouth in a nervous gesture that muffles his words, “whenever my ex-girlfriend asked me to clean off the coffee table and she, uh, wasn’t in the room to supervise, I, uh…”

“I have been told couches are good make-shift trash cans,” I offer, still eyeing the assembled goods that are shoved into every crevice the couch has to offer.

“I’ll look for your name tag,” he tells me. “Just, uh, give me a minute.”

The brave soul gets down on his knees and shoves his hands in up to the elbows, pulling everything up from all the nooks and crannies. I tentatively poke at the edges of the various objects.

It takes fifteen minutes, but we find my name tag.

Somehow, it got stuck inside a broken glass bottle.

“It was broken,” Trevor explains, handing me the name tag.

“My name tag?” I ask, looking at it. It looks none the worse for wear, which is a miracle in and of itself.

“No, the bottle,” he clarifies. “It was an antique I didn’t want to throw away, but when it broke, my ex-girlfriend wanted me to throw it away.”

“So you hid it in the couch.”

“I prefer to say I ‘preserved’ it.”

“Preserved it… in the couch?”

Trevor winces in answer.

I actually laugh.

“Just wanted you to know there wasn’t any loose glass among my, uh, treasure for you to worry about,” he explains.

It actually didn’t occur to me to worry about that. Now, it does. I look down at the piles and scatterings of items suspiciously.

“Are you hungry?” Trevor asks, apropos nothing.

“I… suppose.” I look down at the gutted couch. “Was there… food in there you were trying to get rid of?”

It’s Trevor’s turn to laugh. “Oh, God. No. I ordered Thai. Unless you don’t like Thai. But I ordered extra.”

Each sentence comes out faster than the last, like he thinks if he doesn’t explain himself, I’ll take offense.

“I’ll try some.” I look back at the couch. “I guess I can, um, try to tidy this up while you grab it.”

Trevor snorts. “Easy clean up.”

I eye the mountains of junk dubiously.

But Trevor slides the cushions back into place. They don’t sit right at first, lopsided and lumpy. But Trevor raises his arms and rotate them a few times, like he’s warming up for some sort of upper body workout.

And then he brings an arm down in a chopping motion, and then the other. And then he’s alternating arms, smacking the couch cushions. They fall into place, and he kneads the lumps out, like a baker kneading air pockets out of raw dough.

I’m staring.

“There,” he says after a minute, taking a step back to survey his work. Satisfied, he wipes his brow and turns to me. “Ginger chicken or pad thai?”

I’m looking between him and the couch, not sure what he’s asking. “What?”

“I got an order of each,” he tells me. “Do you have a preference of one or the other?”

“Oh, no.” I look back at the couch and slowly raise a skeptical finger to point. “But…”

I’m not even sure how to ask.

“Oh.” He looks at it. “Is it still lopsided?”

“No, but shouldn’t we…”

He stares at me inquisitively.

“Clean it?” I finish when he doesn’t understand my meaning.

“Oh, this is faster.” He gestures at the couch, as if that’s explanation enough.

And I suppose it is. Not like it’s my couch to worry about, anyway.

I’m still holding my nametag. I pocket it and gingerly sit. I expect to feel something jabbing me up my rear, but there’s nothing of the sort. It feels the same as it did the last time I sat on it. That’s more worrisome, in a way.

But Trevor is satisfied and fetches his takeout. He hands me one of the two containers. “We can trade if you don’t like it.”

And he sits next to me and opens his.

It smells good and wakens my appetite. I open my container and use the fork Trevor handed me to poke at the contents.

“I don’t have flowers,” Trevor tells me through a bite of his dinner.

I stop rolling the noodles around to look up at him. He sees the question in my expression.

“I told you,” he says, “that next time, I’d give you flowers.”

Oh.

“It’s fine,” I tell him and gesture at him with the takeout container I’m holding. “This is enough. More than enough. Did you want me to give you something for it?”

I’m pretty sure I have some cash on me to cover it.

Trevor shakes his head vehemently. “I like paying.”

It’s an odd sentiment, and I find bitter amusement in the thought that it’s a good thing Kay didn’t hear Trevor say those words. Kay would take it the wrong way.

“I just feel bad,” I say.

“Don’t.”

But it’s not that easy.

“I actually feel bad,” Trevor tells me after a silence passes between us. “I should take you to a restaurant. There are nice ones in this area, you know?”

I shrug with one shoulder. I don’t go out very often. “I don’t mind takeout.”

Trevor sighs, sounding aggrieved. He runs a hand through his hair. “I should do things right, though. I told you. I’m bad at this. It’s new.”

I’m not exactly sure what he’s talking about, so I nod. It’s an easy default. Nod, even when I don’t understand, and the topic slides like a well-oiled machine to a topic I’m more familiar with.

“How about next weekend?” he asks me.

“What about it?”

“A restaurant.”

“You mean… go to one?” I clarify, because I’m that sort of dumb, where I need things spelled out. Trevor, I notice, asks half-questions, and I worry he’ll start to pick up on my lack of language skills.

But he doesn’t. He nods. “Yeah. Friday or Saturday work better?”

I didn’t agree, but I didn’t disagree, either, I suppose. “Oh, I’m not doing anything either day.”

“Friday, then? I have two places in mind. We can do one Friday, one Saturday.”

That’s… a lot. I’m not sure I’ve had two commitments like that in a weekend before. I feel a little overwhelmed at the prospect.

He takes my silence as a bad sign and grows worried. “Unless you don’t want to. Sorry, did you ever say if you were interested in the idea at all? We don’t have to. We can just forget it.”

He shoved a large bite of chicken into his mouth and looks away quickly.

“You’re blushing,” I notice.

“Mmm,” he hums in a tone that suggests he’s disagreeing with me, his mouth still full, turning his face away.

“You are,” I press, and I’m smiling. I see why Trevor teases me so much about it. It’s fun.

“Mmm,” he hums again, still not looking at me. But I can see his pink ears, even with his head turned.

I show mercy and drop the subject in favor of eating—whatever it is that Trevor gave me. It’s actually pretty good.

“I can’t stay long,” I tell him. And he looks like I kicked him, so I explain before he can ask, “I work tomorrow.”

“Oh.” His shoulders droop, and I wonder if I said something wrong. But then he mutters, “Yeah, so do I.”

I don’t like the disappointed look on his face, so I say, “Friday works for me though. Or Saturday. Whichever.”

He peeks at me. Actually peeks, with his head ducked, and eyelashes lowered over his eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m excited.”

I don’t know what to say to him.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not,” I assure him quickly.

“You are.”

“So are you,” I shoot back quickly, feeling defensive.

He smiles. He leans across the couch and kisses me.

“Friday,” he says, his breath tickling my skin.

“Yes.”

“After you get off work?”

I nod.

He smiles and gathers up the takeout containers, making a point of throwing them away.

“I can clean, see,” he tells me when he comes back into the living room.

“I see,” I tell him. I double check to make sure that my name tag is still in my pocket because he did _not _clean his couch, no matter what he says, and I’m not up for a repeat search of the ecosystem that lives under its cushions.

He shows me to the door, even when I tell him he doesn’t have to bother.

But he doesn’t open it. Not right away. He presses me against it, kisses me again.

He pulls back suddenly. “I’ll stop, or I won’t stop at all. And we have to work tomorrow.”

I nod, my skin still tingling where his fingers touched my jaw. I’m still so surprised at how soft his skin is.

“Friday,” he tells me when I open the door to leave. He sounds like a child reminding his parents that yes, in fact, his birthday is in the countdown range, and countdown he will.

It’s cute.

He’s excited.

And it’s so cute.

“You’re blushing,” he notes.

I scowl, my face growing hotter, and I leave.

But he grabs my hand and turns me to plant a kiss on the corner of my mouth before he lets me go and I actually head home.


	11. Chapter 11

I do not expect Trevor to show up at my work again.

“You get off in five minutes, right?”

But he does.

“Oh. Yes.”

It’s Friday. And he’s apparently going to wait for me to get off of work.

He grins and takes a seat at one of the small tables. I move closer to the cash register to clock out.

“You’re going to love this place,” Trevor tells me as we walk out of the restaurant together. “Wait here.”

He holds up his hand, and I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. He enters the door of a store near the restaurant I work at. I’m confused, and someone jostles me as they pass me, but I wait. I move a little more out of the way, and I wait.

And wait.

And I wait.

I wait for so long that I’m tempted to walk into the store anyway, but then I wonder if Trevor is picking up some kind of personal or embarrassing thing that he doesn’t want me to know about—

“These are for you.”

I jump, jerking out of my thoughts.

Trevor holds out a bouquet of some sort of purple flower.

I stare at it.

He gives it a light shake, looking at me expectantly. I take it, still staring at it, confused.

“The lady said they’re orchids,” Trevor says. “Sorry it took so long, I… couldn’t make up my mind.”

“Okay.”

What am I supposed to do with flowers?

“You don’t like them.” His face falls.

“They’re nice,” I say quickly.

He studies me. I fiddle with the flowers. I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do with them so I try to hand them back.

“They’re for you,” he clarifies.

Now I _really _don’t know what to do with them.

“Thank you,” I offer and try not to make it sound like a question.

He must see something in my face. I can feel it shifting into an expression against my will. Something embarrassed, maybe. Probably.

“Last time,” he says suddenly, “I said we’d do our proper stretches and race.”

And he’s bending his body this way and that, working out his muscles. He even stretches his fingers.

I’m staring. I seem to do that a lot recently.

He notices me gawking. “You’re not stretching.”

“Why would I?”

“For our race.”

I think not.

“Well, you can run. I’ll follow.” I make a gesture with the flowers, and they catch Trevor’s eye.

“Yeah,” he says, disappointed. “It would be hard for you to run with those.” He sighs, stops stretching. “Next time?”

I shrug. Nodding seems dangerous, even if it is an easy default.

“This way.” Trevor jerks his head towards the original direction we were traveling and I follow.

***

It’s awkward walking around with a bouquet of flowers. They require the attention of a hand at all times. I feel like some flower enthusiast is going to stop me and accuse me of abusing them if I just let them dangle at my side and swing with my steps, so I hold them upright. My arm quickly grows tired, though, and I have to switch hands a few times to give my muscles a break.

And when we get to the restaurant, I don’t know what to do with them. We take our seats at the table, and I put them down on table. But the blooms spread when I lay the bouquet down and take up half of our table space. I try to push them towards the edge but a sprig of petals catches on a passing waiter’s apron and they flip onto the ground.

I tuck them under my chair, trying to keep them semi-upright, leaning against a leg of the chair.

“Sorry,” Trevor mutters. “I should’ve thought about that. Maybe I should’ve gotten them after dinner.”

I’m still confused why he got them at all. It’s a nice gesture, but still unprompted.

“I did tell you I’d give you flowers, though,” Trevor insists.

Yes, he did. I didn’t think he meant he’d _buy _them, though.

The waitress comes to take our order, and my nervous habit of pulling my legs back knock over the bouquet. I lean over to grab the fallen flowers just as the waitress moves to grab her pen and her fingers smack my forehead.

“My apologies,” she tells me.

I dismiss it and set the flowers to rights.

“Those are cute,” she says. “I might be able to find a vase to put them in and put them in the middle of the table, if you want.”

I want to tell her no, but Trevor perks up. “That’d be nice.”

She leaves to fetch one, and unwraps the plastic from the bouquet so she can place them in the water.

She beams at us. “Now, what can I get for you?”

We order, and I spend the whole time frowning at the flowers. The waitress threw away the bindings and plastic, so I have no idea how I’m going to carry them around when we leave. Or maybe I’ll just leave them behind?

I think I’ll do that.

The silence stretches to the point of being awkward.

“Do you live alone?” Trevor asks finally.

“Oh. No,” I tell him.

He waits for more.

I offer nothing else.

“Do you like working at the crêperie?” he asks.

I shrug.

He waits for more.

I offer nothing else.

“Have you been to the sporting goods store at the mall? That’s where I work,” he says.

“No, I haven’t,” I say.

He waits for me to add something else.

I say nothing.

“I’ve been working there for a while,” he says. “I like it okay.”

I nod.

He waits for me to say something else.

I say nothing more.

The waitress comes with our drinks and an assurance that our food will be out soon. Trevor fiddles with his straw, the paper it was wrapped in. I stare at the flowers.

“Oh,” he says, pulling out his cellphone. “I forgot to ask you for your number.”

“I don’t have a cellphone,” I tell him.

He looks at me, surprised. “You don’t?”

I shake my head.

And he waits for me to explain.

I give no explanation.

He slowly puts his phone away, looking disappointed.

I decide I hate this idea.

“Sorry,” I mutter, because I’m very sorry. About everything.

I’m sorry I’m bad at small talk. I’m sorry I’m not interesting. I’m sorry I never know what to say. I’m sorry I’m awkward. I’m sorry I’m not a conventional person. I’m sorry I don’t have a cellphone. I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m sorry.

You have everything to be sorry about, Mikey.

“I suppose it’s good, in a way,” he says after a pause. “A lot of people are too attached to electronics these days.”

I glance away from the flowers to sneak a peek at his expression.

He shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.”

I look back at the flowers.

The silence stretches again, and I hear him take in a breath like he’s going to break it when the waitress comes and delivers our food, refills our drinks.

We eat in silence for a while.

“Do you like it?” he asks me. His plate is already empty, so either he was very hungry, the food was good, or both.

I nod.

He waits for me to say something more.

I fill my mouth with another bite.

And then I kick myself when he looks disappointed.

The check comes and he lays a credit card in the leather envelope.

“I can pay for myself,” I tell him, reaching for my own wallet.

“It’s fine,” he tells me. “I want to.”

But I don’t.

“I can pay for myself,” I tell him again.

He goes to say something else, but the waitress arrives, snags the check, and makes for the register.

I am so distressed with this whole situation.

“I’ll leave a tip,” I tell him, opening my wallet.

But I have no cash. My wallet is empty.

I am so distressed with this whole situation. I cannot say it enough.

He must see something in my expression, because he says, again, “It’s fine.” And adds, softly, “Don’t worry about it.”

I am not worried. I am distressed. I ate takeout he purchased. I ate a meal at a nice restaurant he purchased.

I don’t like him paying for everything when I give nothing in return. That’s not what I’m used to.

The waitress brings a receipt that Trevor signs and we get up to leave.

“Oh,” he says, pausing. “Your flowers…”

He drifts off when he realizes what I already did. The waitress threw away the band that bound the flowers together, the plastic that protected their stems from rough fingers.

I am too upset right now to care. I want to leave. These flowers are not going to slow me down.

“I got them,” I tell him, pulling them out of the vase. “Let’s go.”

They are drenched, and the water drips all over the table before I snatch them away, closer to my body. The trail of water dribbles down my shirt, drenching me. But right now, I don’t care. I just want to leave.

“Your—”

I rush for the exit. Once I’m on the other side, Trevor stops me, grabbing my elbow.

“Your shirt,” he says. “It’s all wet.”

“It’s fine.” I try to shake him off so we can get out of here. I don’t know where we’d go; where I’d go. It’s not like I’m eager to return to Kay’s. I do nothing but mope around, waiting for the weekend to end because I have no social life.

Well, sometimes I have a social life. I manage to mess even that up.

Case and point: my drenched shirt, these flowers I don’t know what to do about, the restaurant—

“Hey,” Trevor says, “there’s a park nearby. Why don’t we go there for a while? It’s nice out today.”

I look down at the flowers. I still don’t know what to do with them. I feel like I’m holding them so tightly the stems will snap.

“Okay,” I agree.

He leads me away.

It’s dark out. I’m not sure we’re actually allowed in the park when it’s dark. Don’t most parks have a curfew? I didn’t realize how late it’s gotten. There aren’t too many people walking around, but the few who are slip into bars we pass.

One guy ambles out of a bar, pulls out a cigarette. He looks like he started early, and is well past drunk even though it’s not _that _late.

As we pass him, he calls, “Hey!”

His speech is slurred. So definitely drunk.

We keep walking.

“I said _hey!_” he shouts, and he sounds closer.

I think he’s talking to us, but it’s never a good idea to engage with angry, drunk men, and this guy is both. Very much so both.

“I said _hey_,” he hollers again, much closer. “Ya deaf, ya cock jockies?”

That sounded like was supposed to be an insult, but it’s an odd one.

Trevor glances at me, and I glance back. We’re mirror expressions of confusion.

And then the drunk guy grabs Trevor’s shoulder, whips him around, punches him. The man is very drunk. He looks like he originally means to hit Trevor in the face, but his fist hits Trevor’s shoulder.

Trevor takes a step back and I mutter, “We should just go.”

“Go? Go where?” the man demands, trying to find his footing. The swing of his punch has him off-balance. “Yer not going anywhere, ya...”

He drifts off, sans insult. He’s staring at Trevor.

I’m staring at Trevor, too. He’s bent at the waist, his legs and back straight, fingers at his toes. He makes several sharp downward, jerking, tugging motions.   
  
The drunk man peers at me in disgust, like this is somehow something I convinced Trevor to do. I take a step away from the man.

Trevor, meanwhile, is throwing his hands over his head, alternating between left and right. It’s not a random motion, but a smooth, practiced one. He almost looks like he’s doing the freestyle swim technique while standing on land.

“Is this some kinda ass driller mating dance?” the guy demands. Despite how ridiculous his words sound, he sounds angrier than ever. He snarls, spittle flying, “I’m not interested, you fucking fairy!”

“What are you doing?” I ask Trevor, moving closer to try to catch his arm and pull him away.

“Stretching,” Trevor explains. “I’ve never been in a fistfight before, but I don’t want to pull anything.”

I’m staring for a different reason now.

Trevor misunderstands my gaping.

“You have no idea how many people pull or twist muscles in fights because they weren’t properly warmed up. I don’t want to end up in the ER because of a torn rotator cuff.”

“I’m... I’m sure,” I tell him. “But—”

The drunk man only heard part of that, and he’s cackling. “Never been in a fist fight? I’ll show ya what it means to be a man!”

He takes another swing, but falls on his face when Trevor’s exercises conveniently allow him to move just enough to dodge the force of the drunk man’s poorly aimed attack.

He doesn’t look like he’s going to have an easy time getting up, but if he was furious before, now he’s spitting mad, a volcano about to erupt.

“We should leave,” I tell Trevor.

“But...” Trevor pauses his exercises to glance between me and the drunk man. “He insulted you because you’re gay.”

Is that what he was doing? I suppose now, in hindsight, I can understand how those odd expressions the man used were homophobic. But really, I’m not sure I care about the opinions of a guy so drunk he can’t throw a punch.

“I can throw a punch if I need to,” I tell Trevor. “That”—I use the flowers to gesture in the direction of the man who’s managed to get up to his knees, but looks like he’s about to vomit—“does not need me to.”

Trevor looks unconvinced.

“Let’s go,” I say again, nudging his shoulder.

Thankfully, Trevor turns so we can continue to the park. The drunk man sees us about to leave and grabs a handful of the hem of my jeans. It’s all he can reach, I think.

“No’s’fast,” he slurs. “You—yer just pretty boys, aren’t’ch’ya? Too pretty to fight and—what’re those?”

He grabs more fistfuls of my clothes to lift himself up high enough to grab the flowers I’m holding. He yanks them from my grasp. I let go. I don’t think he was expecting that. I think he was expecting me to try to wrestle them from him. He collapses to the ground again, an ungraceful heap.

I turn and nudge Trevor along again.

“Your flowers,” Trevor protests.

Secretly, I’m grateful. I have no idea what I was going to do with those other than offer them to Carol to grow some plants in her garden. And I feel like giving them to her would cause too many questions to arise that I am terrible at answering due to my lack of conversation skills.

“It’s fine,” I tell him. “We should go.”

Trevor looks like he’s about to protest again, and I shoot him a frustrated look.

“I’ll get you more,” he promises. “So don’t worry.”

I don’t know if I was worried.

***

The park is closed.

We slip in to sit on a bench anyway.

“Are you alright?” Trevor asks me.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask, surprised.

“That guy.” Trevor motions in a general direction behind us. “He grabbed you.”

Oh.

“I’m not made of sugar. I don’t snap that easy,” I tell Trevor, torn equally between irritation, amusement, and exasperation.

Trevor looks like I kicked him. I am so good at that.

“Sorry you lost your flowers,” he mumbles, looking dejected. “Sorry you didn’t like the date. Don’t like it.”

I’m confused.

“What?”

Trevor lets out a glum, gusty sigh. “I’m not good at this. I’m sorry today was so terrible.”

“It... wasn’t all terrible,” I say honestly.

He looks at me, sidelong. “No?”

“I’m... not good at small talk,” I say. “I’m better at...”

I’m not good at explanations, either. So I make a gesture. I have no idea what it means, or what I’m trying to convey.

Trevor nods. “Body language.”

I frown at him. Actually, I’m terrible at deciphering body language. I can read facial expressions. Usually. Maybe. Sometimes. Actually, more often than not, I manage to misinterpret even those.

But Trevor slides closer, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, and kisses me.

He pulls back far enough to say, “Body language.”

And then he kisses me again. His hands ruffle my hair, fingers grazing my neck. The hairs stand up on my arms in response.

He pulls back again. “I get it.”

He smiles at me.

I’m not sure he understands, but I can agree that _this _type of body language I understand: his body pressed to mine, hip to hip, lips to lips.

Yes, that I understand.

He pushes me back and I’m laying flat on the park bench. He doesn’t hesitate to climb on top of me, so our hips are even more aligned, our lips even more so. I can feel the hard muscle of his erection straining against his jeans, pressing into my inner thigh.

His hand slips under my shirt. It’s still wet and tries to cling to me, but that doesn’t deter Trevor. He slides it up, up, up, and adjusts himself to place a kiss on my ribs—

My vision goes bright. White.

I blink, intrigued but also alarmed. I’ve never known a kiss to cause me to go blind.

But Trevor sits up, quick, his lips pulling away from my skin. And I still can’t see.

Right, now I’m panicking.

“Officer,” Trevor says, polite and collected.

Officer?

“Do you gentlemen know what time it is?”

That’s a new voice. I sit up, and I can see again. There are dark spots in my vision, but I have most of it back. I look around and finally see the police officer.

He’s standing in front of us, holding a flashlight up and beaming it in our faces. When he sees us separate and upright, he apparently decides whatever point he wanted to make is made, and clicks it off.

“Sorry, officer,” Trevor says, rubbing at his neck. “Just...”

“Just nothing,” the officer says, stern. “Now you two head home and make sure you stick to coming to this park during daylight hours. It’s closed between dusk and dawn.”

“Yes, officer,” Trevor says, standing. He reaches for me and I take his hand, my vision still spotting with black.

We leave the park. The officer watches us go before heading off in a different direction.

“Told you,” I can’t help but mutter, wondering how narrowly we avoided a ticket. I’m sure Kay would have had _loads _to say, especially if I landed with some sort of fine for public indecency.

Trevor ducks his head, chastised.

My irritation dissolves.

“We could go back to my place,” he offers. “That park was a bad idea, yeah, I’ll admit that.”

I look down at my shirt. “I should go home and change.”

“Oh, you could—” But he cuts off that suggestion. Lets a beat of silence pass. Finally says, “Yeah, we should go home. Today was... bad.”

I shrug. He looks too miserable for me to agree. “Not too bad.”

“Tomorrow we can try again,” he suggests. I shoot him a quick look and he rushes on, “Forget that other restaurant. I prefer our… casual hangs, I guess. I like it when it’s just you and me in my apartment. It’s… more natural. More… body language.”

His smile is more of a smirk. I’m not sure if he’s trying to make a joke or some sort of sexual reference.

“We can,” I say.

“So tomorrow? Come over for lunch. I’ll get takeout.”

“I can pick something up,” I offer. I still don’t like that he pays for everything.

But he waves the suggestion away. “I’m pretty good at getting takeout. And I’ll keep the leftovers for lunch for work. I’ll bother you a little less at work that way.”

And now he winks. And again I have no idea if this is a joke, or a sexual reference.

I think he has me totally wrong if he thinks I’m good at body language. I understand the physical part of it. To be frank—sex. I understand nothing about the subtle, figurative way it’s used to communicate.

But I agree.

And with a time and place figured out, he kisses me again, gentle, and we part ways. 


	12. Chapter 12

I did not have friends in school growing up. I had acquaintances, and I talked to people, but I never transferred those relationships to my personal life, or any life I held outside the walls of my school. I wasn’t bullied or hated or mocked. Nobody harassed me in any way. I didn’t avoid relationships with my classmates because they shunned me. I was just the quiet one not many people took notice of, and I preferred it that way. I never craved attention from people, not really, not back then.

Sometimes, though, I did wonder what it was like to have a friend to spend the weekends with. I’d hear a classmate idly comment about a recent sleepover, and wonder, if only for a brief moment, what that might be like. I’d wonder what sorts of things people did at those social gatherings.

Maybe it looked something like me and Trevor now.

We’re spread across the floor of his living room, the table pushed close to the couch. Trevor is laying on his stomach, legs held up behind him, ankles crossed, as he rearranges the small tiles on a holster. Around us are the scattered remains of lunch. Various takeout containers, glasses half full of lemonade, a bowl of popcorn that Trevor insisted he make, another of pretzels.

I sit with my legs drawn up, my arms looped around them and holding them tight and fast to my chest. I’m not sure why Trevor suggested we play Scrabble. I’m not sure why he insisted we should play on the floor. I’m not sure why I agreed.

I am still mildly suspicious of his couch, though, so perhaps I don’t mind sitting on the floor.

“Lizard,” Trevor says as he clicks the tiles into place on the board. I glance down as he scribbles down his new score. “Triple score word, too.”

I never played a lot of board games. I can’t decide if I enjoy it.

“Booyah,” Trevor cheers at his new total. “So that’s 274 for me.”

I look down at my collection of letters. _E I P T N S _stare back at me.

_Penis_.

I could play the word _penis_.

I’m not sure if it’s humorous or terrible that that would be the first word I think when I see my scrambled letters. _Pen, pints, ten, sin, sent_ are all also possible words my letters spell, without even trying to use the board to expand my options.

I’m not in the mood to be competitive, so I pick up the _T _and add it to the _I _from the “lizard” Trevor just played. I do not place it on a triple letter or triple score slot. I don’t look around the board to find a more strategic place to place it. There are over a dozen words that have been played, but I don’t so much as glance at them as I slide the tile into place and earn two points.

I still have the letters to play _penis_. I do not fail to notice that.

Trevor scribbles down my new score and says, his words more hesitant and halting as he speaks, “So that gives you... uh, 18.”

What can I say? When I’m not in the mood to compete, I lose spectacularly.

I wrap the arm I just used to play the tile around my legs again to join the other and rest my chin on my knees.

Trevor hesitates, looking up at me from across the board. “Do you… Are you having fun?”

I shrug. “Yeah.”

“Are you... Do you like the game? I have others.” He hoists himself up with an arm.

“No, it’s fine,” I say quickly, feeling like an inconvenience.

Trevor hesitates again. “I don’t mind. It’s not a problem. If you don’t like Scrabble, there are other things we could do.”

I shrug again.

Trevor hesitates once more, and I glance in his direction, feeling both guilty and like a nuisance. I don’t make eye contact—I never do—but I look somewhere in the vague direction of his face.

And that’s when I see it.

There are a stack of DVDs sitting on the bookshelf behind him. It’s not really full of books, mostly knick knacks, and that’s why they stand out and snatch my attention.

It’s the title I can read on the side of one of the DVDs—the font black and bold on a white background—that keeps my attention.

_Gay Patrol: Volume 1._

Trevor notices my befuddled stare and turns to look.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. I put those there so I’d remember to return them to the video store.”

I nod.

“I did ask you for recommendations,” Trevor tells me quickly.

I nod.

“They weren’t exactly very good, I don’t… think. But those were all they had,” he adds.

I nod.

“I needed research,” he goes on.

I nod.

He must have run out of things to say because he runs a hand through his hair.

I nod. And then I realize there’s no need for me to be nodding anymore and I stop. But I still don’t know what to say.

“This didn’t go like I hoped it would,” Trevor admits finally, no longer talking only about the DVDs.

“It’s... fine,” I tell him, unsure what other word to use. It isn’t exactly _not _fine. What he watches and does isn’t my business.

Trevor puts his hands on his hips and lets out a breath. I think he’s run out of things to say.

I hope I’m not supposed to fill the silence.

It stretches as Trevor stares off into space. I’m not sure what he’s doing. But the silence stretches stretches stretches as he contemplates something.

“We can just go back to what we were doing,” I finally say, because things are suddenly awkward and I hate awkward. I’m almost always awkward, the very definition of it, yes, that’s true, but that doesn’t mean I relish in it.

Trevor’s gaze flickers towards me. He smiles. It softens his entire face. “Did I tell you that you’re cute?”

I— What?

“You’re cute,” Trevor repeats in a way that tells me that I said that aloud. “When you sit like that, all bunched up. You look like a hedgehog.”

I blink at him. “Hedgehog?”

“Yeah, you know.” Trevor makes a circle with his hands. “They ball up like they think they’re tough little things, but they’re really just soft and cuddly.”

I… am not sure I’d call hedgehogs cuddly. Or soft.

But even if the compliment is an odd one, I think it _is _supposed to be a compliment.

Trevor moves closer, slowly lowering himself to the ground to crawl towards me. “You’re blushing again.”

“No,” I say quickly, looking away from him.

He catches my chin with a finger and gently nudges my face towards him. I could fight him, but I don’t. His lips find mine, and his hands slowly come up to brush against my jaw, my neck.

Maybe it’s odd how fast I don’t feel awkward anymore, but this is something I’m used to. It’s familiar, the only dance whose rhythm I can move to without thought or much effort.

Trevor moves to take off my shirt, and I don’t stop him. His lips trail down my throat, my chest, and I don’t stop him. He takes his own shirt off, and I don’t protest. His lips move down my body, fingers unhooking the button on my jeans, and still I don’t stop him. Piece by piece, he removes our clothing, and not once do I raise a protest or halt him.

Once we are undressed, he removes his lips from my hip, his hands splayed across my thighs. He hesitates.

I suddenly remember the disaster of our last encounter, and the idea of trying to explain what he should do is little more than exhausting, even now. I am not good with words.

But then, I realize, I suppose I don’t need words to guide him through this.

The thought hits me out of nowhere, but I decide it’s my best bet. I gently remove his hands. I move in close to him and urge him back. He must figure out what I have in mind because he—

Well, he sits on his coffee table. I’m… not sure that was what I had in mind.

My first thought is, _I hope you plan to wash this table afterwards._

My second thought is, _Well, why not, I guess?_

And I move in, nudge his legs apart. He is already hard, and his erection nudges my cheek as I bring my lips to his inner thigh, trailing open-mouthed kisses towards the juncture of his legs. Trevor makes a humming noise of appreciation as I make my way closer and closer to where I know he wants my mouth.

But old habits die hard, and I’m not one to rush. I’ve been paid to take my time, to thoroughly pleasure, and I may know the rhythm of this dance, but I only have set moves. I cannot break my pattern.

Trevor is panting hard, raggedly, within minutes, and my lips have not even ghosted over his erection.

“You’re— really good— at— this,” he chokes out through gasps, breathlessly.

I hum something of an agreement, the noise vibrating the sensitive skin where the point of his inner thigh meets his groin.

Trevor bucks his hips.

“I really— It’s really— I—” he babbles, his fingers tensed on the edge of the table and white knuckled.

I hum again, but this time it’s not in agreement, but a placating noise. I’m not sure what he’s trying to say.

Trevor drops his head back to groan, almost a whining noise.

“Can you— please—” he tries to say, but his breathing is still ragged, and he loses what he was going to say to a groan. He moves his hips instead, a wordless plea, his erection brushing my cheek. It leaves sticky spots wherever it touches, and I realize just how aroused he is.

I also don’t like his slick on my face and lift a hand to wipe it away before I give him what he wants. I’m used to doing what I’ve been asked when it comes to sex, and I won’t drag this out longer than Trevor wants.

The slick of precum is smeared along the tip of Trevor’s erection, and its slightly bitter on my tongue. I swipe it away and swallow it quickly, pointedly not thinking about what I’m ingesting.

I may be good at this, but parts of it still gross me out.

Trevor lets out a relieved breath as I relieve some of his sexual tension with my ministrations. Once his skin is slick-free, I begin in earnest. My tongue knows exactly what to do as I listen closely to the noises Trevor makes, repeating swipes and swirls and motions when he makes a particularly animalistic noise.

In under a minute, I have him making nothing but guttural noises that sound close to the cries of a wounded animal.

A part of me has always been minorly fascinated how sounds of pain and pleasure can so easily be confused. It used to worry me, these sorts of noises. Now, I know that they are my goal; that they ensure a faster orgasm.

Perhaps even a larger tip for exemplary services.

But I am not doing this for money right now and I shove those thoughts away.

Trevor’s hands reach for my hair, his fingers knotting around the strands. I let him. It doesn’t hurt, isn’t meant to hurt. He’s just hanging on to something. I don’t know Trevor, or how his body responds to pleasure, but it’s not uncommon for people to grab onto me when they are close to orgasm.

I focus on keeping up my rhythm, and Trevor becomes nothing but incoherent garble, stuttering breaths of “yes—ye-yes—y-y-y-y-y-ye-yes—” and loud, guttural cries.

“I—” he says, a word pitched high with pleasure. He loses the rest of what he was saying as he tries to catch his breath.

“I—” he tries again. And then, instead of a string of encouraging, stuttered “yes,” it’s a babbling, incoherent “I—I—I—I—” over and over again.

I’m not sure what—

My vision is dotted with black stars and I’m on my back, staring up at his ceiling, gasping in a startled breath.

Trevor just punched me?

Trevor just _punched _me.

I clutch my bruising jaw and use my free hand to push myself up to sitting. Trevor sits on the coffee table, legs still spread wide, his dick an angry, red cone between his thighs. He looks scared as he stares at me, his chest heaving as he stares at me.

“I—th- thought—” he pants. He stops to gasp some more, and then chokes out, “I thought I was going to black out.”

I’m alarmed. Was I actually hurting him then?

“_Fuck_,” he swears passionately and loudly, throwing himself back on the table, an arm slung dramatically over his forehead. It would be a humorously dramatic pose under normal circumstances, but it just looks ridiculous when he’s naked, his pulse beating so fast I can see his dick twitching quickly in tune with its beat.

“You really know what you’re doing, don’t you?” he asks after a long pause.

“I... I guess,” I mutter.

Trevor continues to pant, trying to catch his breath.

Finally, I say, “We can... I don’t have to, um... We can skip this part.”

Trevor sits up so quickly his erection actually bounces up and down several times, like a pendulum. I’m not trying to stare at it, but I need something to look at and I hate eye contact.

“_No_,” Trevor says emphatically. “I want that. A _lot_,” he says. And then, maybe thinking he sounds overly eager or greedy, he tacks on a softer, “Please.”

“Are you going to punch me again?” I ask, still clutching my swore jaw.

“No, promise,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry. It just took me by surprise. It was... intense. My vision started going black. I tried to tell you, but I—I, uh”—he clears his throat awkwardly—“was having trouble trying to tell you.”

I consider.

“But if I’m going to pass out,” he continues eagerly, “I’d like it to be because I had a blowjob of a lifetime.”

I swallow a snort of laughter. For such an adult conversation, he sounds as giddy as a child begging for an expensive toy for Christmas.

“Okay,” I tell him, inching towards him.

He settles himself as I take my place between his legs. I’m tentative at first, but as I said. Old habits are hard to kill, and after only a few slow swipes of my tongue, I’m moving at my normal beat.

Trevor groans, whines, and cums hard and fast in less than a minute.

He collapses, boneless and panting on his table, his head resting on the couch. I wipe my mouth and patiently wait for him to catch his breath.

It takes a while.

“You... didn’t black out,” I try to joke when he finally lazily lifts his head and cracks an eye at me.

“It was a close thing,” he assures me.

He moves then, sliding off the table to kiss me. I’m surprised—I’m not sure I could kiss someone who’s mouth is likely glazed in the remnants of seminal fluid—but I don’t fight him.

“Here or the bedroom?” Trevor asks when he pulls back. “I didn’t think about how this might hurt on the floor.”

“Bed,” I agree.

He grabs my hand and tugs me towards his room like a child excited to show me his car themed bedroom. It’s doubly ridiculous due to the fact that we are both as naked as can be. I only have a moment to glance over my shoulder at our scattered clothes before he tugs me out of view of the living room. He spins us when we get closer to his bed and gives me a nudge so that I take a step backward and the backs of my legs hit his mattress, causing me to topple backwards.

And then he falls to his knees to gently spread my thighs.

“Ah!” My cry is one of alarm and I shift my hips away from his mouth. But Trevor must misunderstand. His lips land on my inner thigh, just as mine did to his earlier.

“Good thing you’re a damn good teacher,” he mumbles, his hot breath warming my sensitive skin.

“Wait, wait, wait,” I say quickly, almost panicked.

He pauses to look up at me.

“You don’t—I don’t—You don’t have to,” I say quickly, my words tumbling over each other.

He looks surprised. “But I want to.”

I purse my lips and shake my head emphatically.

He’s confused. “You can tell me if I do something you don’t like.”

“I don’t want you to do it at all,” I insist desperately.

He tilts his head as he studies me, but my expression remains determined.

“Okay,” he finally relents, backing away from me. He climbs up onto the bed next to me. “But if you mean you’re ready for the finish line, I might need, um, a little help getting ready.”

I’m momentarily puzzled until he gestures at his groin, where his erection doesn’t quite look ready for round two.

“Oh,” I say. “I can help with that.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he says eagerly. And then, more soberly, he adds with an embarrassed smile, “Only if you want to.”

He adjusts so that he’s laying flat on his bed, legs parted for me. And again, my tongue is put to work on him as Trevor uses everything except cohesive words to guide me through how to pleasure him. His manhood is quickly interested in what I’m doing, standing at full attention.

I pull back and it’s a disappointed noise Trevor makes.

“Seriously,” he says, “I don’t know how it’s possible for someone to be so good at that.”

I shrug.

“It _has _to be a gay thing,” he mutters as he opens the drawer to his bedside table to rustle around in the drawer. He pulls out a packaged condom that he opens with his teeth, and I’m hit very suddenly by the realization that we haven’t used a condom up until this point.

Okay, so maybe I used to rent my body for money, but I’ve been out of practice long enough that I _am _a little rusty in some parts. I’m usually a lot better at remembering to use condoms. Although normally I carry a few on me. I did give the last of my stash to Jess—and again, I’m not in the habit anymore of carrying them with me.

It’s still distressing I managed to forget.

Trevor slides the condom onto himself, and I snap out of my thoughts as I watch, making a distressed noise that causes him to stop.

“What?” he asks.

“You have to—” I make a gesture, but he doesn’t understand. I instruct, “Take that off and get a new one.”

He’s obviously puzzled but does as I say.

“Pinch the tip,” I tell him.

He stares at me. “Won’t that hurt?”

I’m not sure condoms have nerves to feel pain. I wonder if Trevor is making a joke.

But then his fingers tentatively move down and prod at the tip of his erection.

“Haven’t you ever used a condom before?” I marvel. Some things are exclusive to gay sex, but not all.

“Yeah,” Trevor says slowly, like he thinks I’ve asked a trick question. “I just... put it on, right?”

I marvel at him once more. “Let me see that.”

He hands me the condom and I open it. Then, I place it on his erection, pinch the tip, and carefully unwind it.

“Oh,” Trevor says, blinking. “The end isn’t supposed to be inflated?”

“It can burst if it’s full of air,” I explain. “And a broken condom defeats the purpose, right?”

He hums his agreement. “Glad you showed me that.”

I’m amazed he didn’t _already_ know that.

Trevor takes this lesson in stride, not pausing to comment further, and reaches for something else before sliding my way again. This time, he’s holding a small, colorful bottle.

“Look, see,” he says proudly, brandishing the bottle before opening it. “I did my research.”

I didn’t think it took research to realize that anal sex requires lubrication. I wonder if he was lacking any the last time we tried this—we didn’t get very far, and we wouldn’t have gotten much further without it—but I don’t know how to say that without sounding cutting or critical. So instead of saying anything, I watch as Trevor opens the bottle. Then, he blinks at it, making a “hmmm” noise as he considers.

I wait.

Trevor makes another “hmm” noise and glances at me.

I reach for the bottle. “Let me,” I say. “I’ll show you.”

He’s more than a little relieved as I take it. I bite back a grimace and slather my hand with the chilled goop, reach down to slide my fingers along the length of Trevor’s erection. He hums in appreciation as I use my fingers to massage it onto him. Then, I lay down next to him, put a second coat on my fingers, and work it onto myself, into myself.

Trevor watches, a little wide-eyed. I pause, exasperated, and explain, “If we’re not _both _lubed up, this is just going to hurt.”

He nods as I apply another layer of lubrication. When I’m done, I close the bottle and hand it back to him. He tosses it back into the drawer and then looks at me.

He clears his throat. “So do I...?”

I roll over onto my stomach and let my legs fall apart instead of reply.

“Okay,” Trevor mutters, and I feel the hard pressure of his erection against the curve of my ass. A moment later, and the pressure shifts, inside of me now. I let out a long breath to resist tensing up against the pressure.

He pushes a little more, sliding further into me. I close my eyes and slow my breathing. There’s a small pain, but I refuse to lock up.

Another push, and I can feel that the entire length of him is inside of me. I grit my teeth and focus on my breathing to distract myself from the brief flash of pain.

Trevor pulls back, pushes in again, slowly, like he’s testing the waters, waiting for my reaction. When I don’t cry out in pain or ask him to stop, he takes that as a sign to continue. He’s slow at first, an insistent but almost gentle rocking. But after several thrusts, he picks up speed, the edges of his hip bones hitting the bottom curve of my ass. Faster and faster—_slapslapslap _as our slick skin meets.

He rides himself out quickly, sinking his erection deep with a groan as he orgasms, slipping in a few last, slow thrusts to ride out his high. He holds himself up over me, our bodies curved around one another, as he catches his breath.

Then, Trevor pulls back, detaching us, and drops himself onto the mattress next to me.

“That was—that was—” he huffs through his quick breaths. “Whoo!”

I wonder how soon is too soon to ask about a shower. I yawn.

Trevor turns towards me. “Was it good?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say.

Trevor looks almost nervous. “I tried researching, like I said. But the films—they didn’t always show me how things were done. Most of them just skipped from, um, foreplay to sex and I didn’t get to see...”

It clicks.

“You mean you watched gay porn for research on how to _have _gay sex?” I ask.

He nods tentatively. “They were informative.”

I don’t know how informative porn is. I’m not even sure most porn is anatomically correct. What little snippets I’ve seen have always boggled my mind. I mean, I suppose gymnastics is some sort of prerequisite for porn stars...

“But was it good? Actually good?” Trevor presses.

“Oh, yeah,” I say again.

“Like... if you were going to rate it,” Trevor says, “what would it be on a scale of 1 to 10?”

I stare at him.

“Where 1 means ‘needs improvement’ and 10 is ‘perfect,’” he clarifies, but I’m not sure I needed the clarification. I still don’t know what to tell him.

“It was... good,” I offer, because I have no idea how rating works for sex.

“Is that a 5-level good?” Trevor insists, “or an 8-level good?”

“Good,” I repeat, growing weary of this conversation.

Trevor looks pained but drops it with a sigh.

We lay in his bed together in silence for a beat. I yawn again.

“How are you so good anyway?” Trevor asks. “I mean, I’ve never... It was... That was... I think that was my favorite part,” he finally says, almost shy. And then he clarifies, “The blowjob part.”

I shrug. “You get better with experience.”

He nods, looking like I’ve offered him some sort of life-changing advice.

I want to shower. I feel disgusting. But my eyelids also feel heavy, and I can’t decide if the urge to clean myself or the urge to sleep will win out. Sex is always a work out that leaves me wearily exhausted.

“Guess I just need more experience,” Trevor tells me softly. He also yawns.

I do something close to nodding, my eyes refusing to open.

“I’m okay with a lot more practice if it involves you,” Trevor says.

I want to nod, but my head is too heavy to move.

My thoughts scatter and I fall asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

I’m not the sort to be full of energy. It’s like I have a defective battery operating me, and instead of lasting a full day, every action I do saps up ten percent of its total charge. Taking an order from a customer at work takes up ten percent, going to the convenience store uses ten percent, holding a lengthy conversation takes ten percent. The only way to recharge that battery once it’s depleted is to sleep.

That’s the only reason I can figure why I took a nap naked and without a shower in Trevor’s bed. I ran through my battery talking to Trevor, playing board games, and our sexual activities. I needed a recharge.

I yawn as I sit up and then I cringe. I can feel the sheet sticking to the backs of my legs, and I know I am going to need a shower immediately.

Trevor is also sleeping, his dark brown hair tangled in his eyelashes and splayed over his pillow. He looks peaceful, and I hate to bother him.

But I want a shower.

I bite my lip as I contemplate the problem. It’s awkward to use someone’s shower without permission, especially since I don’t have any supplies. I’ll have to use his shampoo, his body wash. But it’s also awkward to wake him up. It feels personal, and I don’t know that we really have that sort of intimacy with one another.

But I want a shower.

I lean over to gently nudge Trevor’s shoulder.

“Mmwha?” he mumbles, not even opening his eyes.

“Can I use your bathroom?”

“Yeah,” he mutters.

I decide I should clarify. “To shower?”

“Yeah,” he mutters again.

I slip out of the bed and gather up my rumpled clothes from the living room floor. I find his bathroom and drop the clothes on the closed toilet seat and turn on the tap, let the water warm, and step into it.

I’m trying to use my hands to scrub off the slime from my legs when I hear the door open. I’m not having a lot of luck getting it off, but I don’t have anything other than my fingers to use. I’m not using Trevor’s pouf.

The sound causes me to pause. “Trevor?”

He opens the shower curtain enough to peek in at me. “Mind if I join you?”

I blink. “Um. I’m...”

He waits for an answer patiently.

“I’m almost done,” I hedge. “Just a minute.”

“I’m fine with just a minute,” he presses.

I’m not. I’m still frustrated from how hard it is to clean myself with nothing but soap and my own hands that I almost snap that at him. “I’ll get cleaner without a distraction.”

He looks hurt, but this time, I don’t retract my words. I like personal space, and the shower is one place where I definitely want it.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll just wait until you’re done.”

He looks like he’s hoping I’ll change my mind. When I don’t, he backs away and leaves the bathroom.

It takes me more than a minute, like I told Trevor. I think it takes me close to ten to completely scrub myself that I no longer feel so miserably disgusting.

I dry myself and put on my clothes. They’re rumpled, but it doesn’t bother me, and I don’t exactly have any other options. I used a finger and some of Trevor’s toothpaste to clean out my mouth as best as I can.

When I finally return to Trevor’s bedroom, it’s to an odd sight.

Trevor is standing on his bed, his feet sinking into the plush of the mattress, and he’s fiddling with what looks like a corkboard. I don’t think I remember there being a corkboard over the bed before I left for my shower, so this must be some sort of project he took on in the past few minutes.

I creep closer, curious. And then my curiosity seeps into morbid fascination.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He jumps, startled. He glances at me before pushing another pushpin into the board, straight through the center of a packaged condom. Trevor is hanging condoms up over his bed like a teenager might plaster band posters or selfies.

He gestures for me to hand him another from the box on his bedside table. Bemused, I do. I watch as he tacks it up. Then, he answers, “Figured it’d be easier if I could just reach up and grab one.”

I nod, but it’s more a bewildered gesture than one of understand—but then, I _do _understand.

“Are you—”

My morbid fascination bleeds into horror.

I try again, “Are you planning on using those?”

Trevor gestures for me to hand him yet another. Warily, I do. Then, he says, “Well, yeah. Like I said, figured it’d be easier if they were within easy reach.”

“But...” I drift off, unsure how to even begin to vocalize my thoughts. “But what’s the point?”

It’s Trevor who looks bemused now. “What do you mean?”

“You’re… Well, they’re useless now. The ones you pinned,” I clarify, gesturing towards his corkboard.

He looks between it and me, clearly not understanding what I’m saying.

I can’t believe I need to say it at all.

“If you puncture them,” I say slowly, trying to figure out if Trevor is playing stupid, “they’re pointless to use.”

Trevor again looks between the pinned condoms and me. After several head swivels, he looks at me and asks, “What’s the point anyway?”

I’m not sure I know what he means.

“Of condoms,” he clarifies.

Now, I’m _really _not sure I know what he means.

“For gay sex,” he clarifies further. “Pregnancy isn’t an issue, right? So…”

He drifts off so I can answer, but I am marveling at him. He seems good at that—I’ve marveled at him more times than perhaps anyone else. Again, I briefly wonder if he’s playing stupid. When he continues to look at me, expectantly, awaiting an answer, I decide that no, he’s not playing stupid.

“Um,” I say eloquently. And then, just as articulate: “Well.”

I pause and think about how to answer him. He takes that as cue to continue, “I mean, if two guys don’t have a chance of an unwanted pregnancy, do we actually need these?”

He gestures at the pinned condoms, and I automatically say, “No.”

He nods, satisfied, and I realize he’s once more misunderstood me.

I try to rectify this. “Not _those._ Those are useless now. But they do have a purpose, even in gay sex. I mean, STDs exist in gay couples. That’s why AIDs was so rampant years ago.”

Or so I’ve heard. Who the hell am I to give a sexual history lesson?

Trevor looks baffled and I am exasperated by it. I feel that defective battery draining. I’m going to need another nap by the end of this conversation.

“I don’t have any STDs,” he tells me. “I’m clean.”

I debate how to answer. My sexual history is something I’m not sure I have the energy to bring up right now. Or ever.

“It’s just... safer,” I tell him, weary.

Trevor looks at the condoms he’s tacked up. “So these are basically trash now?”

“Yeah.”

He looks disappointed. “I thought it would save us time. And that way, they wouldn’t get lost.”

I’m not sure I want to know how someone can lose a condom. A brief image of the dark underside of his couch flashes into my mind, and I push it away and correct myself—I _never _want to know how Trevor can lose a condom.

“Alright, well.” He heaves an aggrieved sigh. “I suppose I can find another use for this.”

He stares at the corkboard for another long moment before hopping off his bed. “I’m going to shower.”

I nod, he leaves, and I try to figure out what to do with myself. I am not sitting on the bed, when the sheets are filthy from our unwashed, post-coital bodies. I decide to move to the living room and hesitantly sit on the couch. It’s only then that I realize that there are still half empty take out containers, bowls of snacks, and our Scrabble game scattered across the floor. The tiles are no longer neatly placed on the board, but a jumbled mess.

I decide to do something useful and start to tidy up. I put the game back into its box. I open the containers of take out and try to guess if the food is still alright after roughly half a day without refrigeration. I almost place the bowls of popcorn and pretzels on the living room table before I remember how filthy it is—I’m sure there’s sweat from Trevor’s naked body all over it—and wipe it down thoroughly.

“I didn’t mean for you to clean.”

I look up at Trevor, hair wet and tousled, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.

I feel awkward, like I’ve been caught doing something illicit. “I didn’t want to put food on it.”

Trevor’s eyebrows furrow. “Why not?”

“Well, because...” I gesture towards him, but that merely confuses him more. So I say, “I’d say it’s pretty dirty after you sat on it, naked.”

Trevor shrugs. “I suppose.”

“So it should be cleaned,” I press.

Trevor shrugs again. “Well, I mean… does it matter if it’s dirty?”

I stare at him.

And he continues, “It’s not like I lick the table or anything.”

“But you put food on it that you intend to put in your mouth.”

“Yes,” Trevor agrees. “But it’s on a plate or whatever. The plate is sort of like a protective barrier. Why worry about a dirty table if the plate is clean?”

I think I feel myself slowly working towards a stroke. “Have you ever cleaned your coffee table?”

“No,” he says. I feel my face spasm against my will, and he hurries to say, “It’s been cleaned before. Just not by me.”

I take a moment to concentrate on my breathing—in, out, in, out—to avoid having a meltdown. I never put a lot of thought into it, but I suppose I appreciate cleanliness. Tidiness is not always required, but I need spaces to be regularly disinfected.

When I feel calm enough to do so, I say, “Do you have any intentions to clean your bed clothes? The sheets, especially?”

Trevor looks at me with the level of confusion I would expect him to if I had just spewed out an extremely long tongue twister in Swahili. He sounds equal parts puzzled and offended when he asks, “Is there something wrong with my sheets?”

“They’re— We— I—”

I stop and focus again on breathing—in, out, in, out—while I try to organize my visceral reaction into a more cohesive reply.

“They’re going to be pretty dirty,” I say, “after having sex on them. The lubrication, especially, will have gotten all over everything. We took a nap, afterwards, too. When I woke up, the sheets were sticking to me.”

“Sticking to you?” Trevor repeats. “Why would they— Ohhhh.”

Finally, he gets it.

“Yeah,” he admits, “I guess we should have washed up afterwards. Next time, we’ll shower before our nap?”

He poses it as a question. I shrug. “Sure.”

And so, I wipe down the table as Trevor gathers up his bed clothes and sets to washing them.

“Are you hungry?” he asks when we’ve both finished. “I’m starving.”

I shrug.

“I’ll get more takeout,” he tells me. “How about some pizza? I’ll pay.”

“Sure.”

Trevor looks at me suspiciously. “You’re okay with me paying?”

“Yeah.”

Trevor eyes me, as though waiting for me to change my mind. I won’t, though. I don’t know how to have friendships, not really. It’s with an exhausted sort of relief that I accept whatever sort of relationship we have, it’s stepped over a line into something sexual. Those sorts of relationships, I know what to expect.

I was a prostitute. I am used to being paid for sex. While I don’t expect Trevor to hand me a wad of cash, it feels more natural to allow him to pay for things for me.

I don’t know how to explain that to Trevor. I don’t know if I should explain that to Trevor. I don’t like thinking about things I’ve done or that have happened to me in the past, and I’m not ready to bring them up now, simply because Trevor is curious why I’m okay with his paying for our pizza.

But he doesn’t push. He takes out his cellphone and orders pizza, tells me it’ll be here in twenty minutes.

“We could do something else,” he tells me. I watch in confusion as he lowers himself to the ground.

“Um,” I say. “Like what?”

“Well,” Trevor says, as he starts to do pushups, “anything, really. Could play more games if you want. Watch a movie. Would you rather go out?”

I hate going out if I don’t have to. I may complain about how I have no social life and spend my time off of work playing the role of hermit, but I actually glean a sick pleasure from it most days.

It’s the fact that I have no other option than act the part of hermit that made me feel bitter about it, I suppose. Although Trevor is helping to soothe that kernel of bitterness, in a way. At least I have options for how I spend my free time now.

“I’d rather stay in,” I tell him, watching as he continues to do pushups.

“Well,” he says, “I have a few other board games we can break out.”

“It doesn’t...” I wasn’t going to ask, but as I drift off, distracted by him, I cannot stop myself. “What are you doing?”

“Pushups.” He says it matter-of-fact, as though it were obvious. And yes, literally, I understand what he’s doing. It’s more the part about—

“Why?”

He pauses mid-motion, his chin barely an inch from the ground, his back and legs straight, arms at a perfect angle. He tilts his head to look at me. “Why not?”

I’m not actually sure how to answer that, so I say nothing.

“Don’t you ever just get the itch to move?” he asks, resuming his pushups. “Besides, these are easier than burpees.”

I can’t say I have, and I can’t argue what is or is not easier than a burpee when I don’t even know what it is. So, I watch quietly. Trevor continues his spontaneous exercising until the doorbell buzzes. Only then does he jump to his feet.

He lays the pizza down on the living room table and fetches us plates.

“I have _Monopoly_,” Trevor tells me.

I’ve never played, so I decide there’s no harm in trying.

***

I decide I hate _Monopoly_.

I have not been trying. I have not been doing anything other than the bare minimum required of me—purchase landmarks I land on, pay for ones I land on that are not mine, collect $200 to pass “go.”

It has been three hours.

And I think it will be another three before this game ends.

My eyes are glazing over. Trevor is some sort of super trooper, and he’s still enthusiastically playing. I’m not sure why I haven’t tapped out yet. I still have several thousand dollars, Trevor has just as much, and I didn’t previously think it was possible, but I think this game is going to sap my sanity from me. It’s already drained me of all my energy.

But on and on we play, the minutes ticking by. I place the metal cat in “jail” and sigh, resting my head on the back of the couch. This time, Trevor didn’t insist we spread across the floor to play. I’m glad. The couch, despite the terrors under its cushions, is quite comfortable and…

Trevor nudges me, and I jerk awake.

“Tired?” he asks me.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep. I...”

“It’s late,” Trevor says, glancing at his cellphone to check the time. “Almost midnight. Stay the night?”

He asks it so casually, like someone asking what my favorite color is.

“Oh, sure.”

He turns to me then and places a kiss on my neck. “I really liked having sex with you,” he admits against my skin. “I was almost afraid it would hurt or something.”

“It hurts if you don’t know how to do it,” I tell him.

“Good thing you know what you’re doing.” He kisses my neck again. “I especially liked… well… I’m surprised how much I liked the first part.”

I’m not sure why. Is he surprised because it was the first time another guy went down on him? I want to tell him that a blowjob is a blowjob—a mouth is the same regardless of whose it is—but I curb the comment.

Besides, I think he’s telling me this for a reason.

I don’t want to ask, but a quick glance at the boardgame makes plain my choices: sex or more _Monopoly_.

I will never choose _Monopoly_.

“Do you want me to do it again?” I ask.

“Please,” Trevor breathes against my ear.

I pull back, and so does Trevor.

“Are you going to punch me this time?” I ask warily.

“That was— No, of course not,” Trevor says quickly. “You just… took me by surprise. I’m sorry I did that.”

“Condom,” I say.

Trevor blinks at me.

I sigh. “Did you leave the rest of the box in your bedside table?”

He confirms and goes to fetch a condom. I decide to follow him to make sure he’s actually grabbing an undamaged one from the box, and not one of the ones that are still pinned above his bed. He takes a seat on the edge of his bed. I wait a second to see if Trevor will undress himself, and quietly sigh when it’s clear he wants me to do it.

I am tired, so I merely unbutton his jeans, pull down the zipper, and reach into the opening of his boxers to pull free an already-hardening erection. I make a point of pinching the tip of the condom as I put it on. And then, I get to work.

It isn’t long before I feel his muscles spasming with an orgasm and pull back.

“One sec,” I say, stumbling to my feet and going to his bathroom to use my finger again as a makeshift toothbrush and clean out my mouth.

When I return, I take a seat next to him on the bed. And then, I allow myself to fall back onto it, my legs still dangling over the edge.

“You didn’t punch me this time,” I mumble.

Trevor ducks his head as he tosses the tied off, used condom into a small trash bin near his bed.

“It felt different with the condom,” he tells me. “A little less intense. Still good, though,” he tacks on hastily, as though he feels he’s insulted my performance.

I make a noncommittal noise, my eyes drifting shut.

I think Trevor tells me something about sleepwear, but I don’t know what the question was.

Then, Trevor nudges me. I wake with a start and sit up.

“What?” I mumble, rubbing my eyes. The bedroom light seems suddenly so blindingly bright.

Trevor is standing next to the bed in a sleeveless shirt and shorts. I peer at him.

“I’m going for my daily run,” he tells me. “Wanna come with?”

“You...” I am still half asleep, too muddled to process what he’s telling me. “You do a daily run at midnight?”

“No, at four-thirty.”

Four-thirty. The numbers don’t make any sense to me.

“In... the morning?” I clarify.

“Of course, sleepyhead. You wanna come with?”

I’m still trying to figure out where four hours of my life went. But then I finally take note of the fact that I’m under a blanket. I’m laying fully on Trevor’s bed, no longer dangling off the edge.

“You moved me while I was sleeping,” I realize aloud.

“A little, yeah. Just moved you so I could cover you up,” Trevor tells me.

I suppose I was more tired than I thought if I didn’t wake up at all.

“So what about it?” Trevor asks.

“I... guess so,” I say. “But I don’t have anything to wear.”

Trevor is already moving to his dresser, pulling out another pair of shorts and a sleeveless top. He chucks them at me. “You can borrow some of mine.”

Well... okay.

I yawn as I stumble out of bed and fumble into the new change of clothing. They’re a little large on me. I’m not exactly short for a guy, but I’m also not tall. Average, I suppose. Maybe on the shorter side of average. Regardless, Trevor’s clothes are a little long on me, and a little loose, but they stay on alright.

“Ready?” Trevor asks, overly enthusiastic.

“Yeah,” I mumble. I follow him through the living room. He grabs a bottle of water and straps it to his leg, on some sort of holster under his shorts.

I marvel at the contraption.

He smiles that soft smile. “We can finish our game when we get back.”

I’m baffled. Then, he gestures at the living room table where _Monopoly_ still sits, undisturbed from last night.

“Right,” I say, and he leads the way to the door. I make sure to accidentally stumble and bump the table to make the game go sprawling all across the floor.

“Oh, sorry,” I say.

“Just how tired are you?” Trevor asks, laughing. “Ah, well. We can start a new game or something.”

I will do everything in my power to make sure it’s that “or something.”

When we step out of Trevor’s apartment building, he halts. “Alright, so now we need to stretch.”

He starts swinging his arms. I’m not sure why his arms need to be stretched out if he’s running.

“Like this,” he instructs, likely assuming that I have yet to follow his lead because I don’t know how to do the stretch.

I half-heartedly move my arms. Trevor guides us through twenty minutes of stretches. After three, I realize how chilly it is outside and start shivering.

“You won’t even feel the cold once we get going,” Trevor promises. “You’ll be sweating buckets.”

I am unconvinced.

When he’s done with his stretch regime, he finally says, “Alright, time to go.”

Perhaps I am an idiot. Perhaps I am used to seeing casual joggers on the sidewalk. Perhaps I assumed when Trevor said “run” he meant something close to what those joggers did.

Regardless, I am startled when Trevor tears off at high-speed. I almost expect to see a dust cloud trailing in his wake.

I’m finally awake and thinking clearly, and I am definitely regretting this decision.


	14. Chapter 14

I have always wondered on some level if the world was out to get me. They were fleeting thoughts, but I do admit to having them in the past. For the most part, I’ve always called myself dramatic or self-pitying and forced myself to stop.

I cannot help but wonder, yet again, if the world is currently out for me. And if it is, is it trying to kill me or teach me some sort of lesson?

I feel absolutely ridiculous in Trevor’s clothing. The only reason I can fathom that I agreed to wear them was that I was still half-asleep when he offered them to me, and I’m pretty sure someone could easily convince me to try to eat my arm when I’m half-asleep.

Also, I hate running. It’s stressful. Or maybe that’s the world making it stressful—the same one that’s currently out to get me.

I trip over a fire hydrant. I don’t land on my face, but it’s a close thing. I curse. The streetlights help illuminate the sidewalks, but it’s still dark and I’m exhausted from lack of sleep. As a result, I’m not doing a good job avoiding random obstacles.

I also can’t keep up with Trevor. The guy is a machine running full steam ahead. He’s half a block ahead of me. He literally runs in circles for minutes as a time. I think it’s some sort of pity or mercy move. Like, he’s trying to dawdle around while I catch up but without having to come to a complete stop. I’m not actually sure. I almost wish he would just forget about me and leave me behind. Once he’s out of eyeshot, I could just give up this charade and try to navigate my way back to his apartment and wait for him.

But he tries to match his pace to mine, sort of, or at least enough that I can keep up. And so, I try to keep up. I feel oddly obligated to do so.

I also feel like Trevor and I could make a how-to video for running where Trevor shows the viewers how to do something, and I show them how not to do something. Trevor manipulates his way down the path with the speed and efficiency of a cheetah on steroids. I fumble over the simple act of moving my feet and stumble around, smashing into signs and fire hydrants. Trevor looks like he has some sort of breathing routine he does so he isn’t huffing or puffing. I can’t feed my lungs air fast enough and wheeze loud enough to likely make any doctor pause to wonder if I’m having an asthma attack.

At one point, Trevor disappears from my sight and I weakly hope that finally, at last, he decided to leave me behind and I can crawl back to his apartment. But then I see he crossed the street and make a pained groaning noise before following him.

And then, I am nearly hit by a car.

It screeches to a halt and narrowly avoids barreling me over. The worried driver sticks his head out the window to holler choice words at me that are punctuated with slurs, insults, and violent hand gestures. I realize that if I want to keep up with Trevor, I can’t interact with the driver. I don’t have time. Also, I don’t want to. I have no idea what I’d say even if I could convince my gasping breaths to form any kind of words.

So, I wordlessly stumble after Trevor. I look drunk. I’m sure of it. My legs are so tired and I feel almost light headed from how hard I’m breathing. I’m pretty sure that if I were to take a marker and trace out my exact path on a map of the city, it would look like a series of slanted Z’s.

I am a pinball in a pinball machine, bouncing off of obstacles like every time I do, I score more points. I’m obviously aiming for the high score if I haven’t hit it already.

I’m pretty sure hours have gone by when Trevor finally stops. I stop a few paces from him and brace my hands on my knees, trying to give my lungs all the air they’re insistent they need and utterly failing.

“Water break,” Trevor tells me. And then he notices the state I’m in. “I’m… guessing you’re new to this,” he says, looking only a little apologetic.

He takes the water bottle from the strap on his leg and offers it to me. I remove a hand from a knee long enough to take it and then return to using it to brace myself. Trevor looks at the water bottle that is now between my hand and knee. I don’t know if I could take so much as a sip right now without choking. I don’t think I can stop wheezing long enough to swallow. Everything would wind up in my lungs, instead.

“Do you want to sit for a minute?” Trevor asks, and I don’t need any more prompting than that. I crash to the cement and drag myself over so I’m not in the middle of the sidewalk.

“You’re sitting in a bush,” Trevor points out.

I can’t speak. I’m breathing so hard it _sounds_ like I’m trying to speak—“Heeeeh, huuuuh, hooooh”—but I honestly am not. I let my head fall back on the tightly clustered branches of the shrub.

“Have you ever gone running before?” Trevor asks with concern as he squats next to me. The guy isn’t even breathing hard. I think maybe he has a light sheen of sweat on his skin, but other than that, it would be impossible to even guess that he just sprinted across town at the speed of sound.

I still can’t speak so I just shake my head.

“Well, we can sit here for a few minutes before continuing.”

I shake my head again, more vehemently.

“No, you don’t want a break?”

I’m shaking my head so fast I’m sure I look like I’m having a seizure.

“You don’t think you need one?” Trevor sounds more concerned than ever.

I finally manage to gasp out, “Apart—”

Trevor’s brow furrows. “What?”

“—ment,” I finish after several more pants.

Trevor peers at me. “I couldn’t hear—”

“Bed,” I gasp. I need to lay down. I want to go to sleep and pretend this nightmare never happened.

“Oh,” Trevor says. “You mean you want sex?”

If my arms weren’t still trembling from exhaustion, I might actually consider smacking him for his stupidity.

“Sleep,” I wheeze.

“Here?” Trevor asks.

He is not understanding me whatsoever.

“I want to go”—I pause to take a few breaths—“back to the apartment to”—gasp, gasp, wheeze—“lay down in bed and”—wheeze, wheeze, gasp—“_sleep_.”

“_Oh_,” Trevor says. He ducks his head, looking embarrassed. “Well, you just had to say so.”

I’d get irritated with him—_I did say so_—if he weren’t so nice. He stands and offers me his hand. I take it and he guides me back up to my feet. My legs feel like limp noodles, my muscles exhausted and about to give out under me.

“You can lean on me if you need to,” Trevor offers.

I need to.

We manage to make it back to the apartment. Trevor guides me to his bedroom and I collapse on the edge of the bed.

“I’m going to finish my run. You’ll be okay here alone?”

I manage a nod and Trevor leaves. I somehow convince myself to shower and rinse myself of the six layers of sweat that I’ve gathered before I toss on my own clothes and dive for the bed again.

I fall asleep.

***

And I wake slowly. When I finally convince myself to open my eyes, I see a flash of hair, and then it disappears as it sinks to the floor. It appears again a moment later, and then it sinks out of my line of sight again. I watch for several moments before my sleep-addled brain catches up with the fact that hair does not float disembodied. I creep closer to the edge of the bed to peer down.

Trevor is doing pushups on the floor next to the bed.

“You really like doing those,” I mumble.

His head turns to look at me, but his arms don’t stop their pumping. He continues to sink to the floor and push himself up. I’ve never been one for workouts or exercise, but even I can admit he looks oddly graceful as he does them. He makes it look like a bizarre sort of dance instead of an intense workout.

“I usually do some sort of workout routine after my daily run,” he tells me. “Upper body on the weekends, full body on weekdays.”

“Full body?” I echo, unsure what he means.

“Usually several sets of burpees,” he tells me.

I am still unsure what a burpee is, but if it involves burping, I’m not sure what sort of exercise it is.

“Oh,” is all I say.

Trevor continues his pushups.

“Do you like working out?” I ask.

Trevor finally stops his pushups. He rolls onto his back and starts doing crunches, except he turns his torso in alternating directions as he rises. Left, right, left…

“I enjoy it,” he tells me, not pausing or slowing down. “I like the high it gives me.”

The high?

I sink back down onto the bed with a groan.

Trevor is a workout junkie.

I hope to the high heavens he does not expect me to join him. I actually think I’d choose _Monopoly_ over it.

“Do you want—” he begins to ask, and I am a coward. For all I know, he was about to ask, ‘do you want to get takeout for breakfast?’ In all likelihood, maybe that was what he was about to ask. But I am too afraid that he is about to ask me to join him in his routine.

So, I quickly tell him, “I should probably be getting home.”

Trevor pauses mid-crunch. “You’re heading out?”

“Yeah.” I slide out of his bed. “I should get some fresh clothes and stuff.”

Trevor looks disappointed. “You could borrow some of mine. You could stay a bit longer. We could finish that game of _Monopoly_.”

“No, it’s fine. I should get home anyway,” I press. Even though I may choose _Monopoly _over a workout, that does not mean I would happily stick around long enough to play it for no reason.

He doesn’t protest further as I find my shoes and head for his front door. He trails after me, catching my wrist and turning me enough to plant a kiss on my lips. Trevor likes kissing, apparently.

“Can I swing by your work on Friday when you get off?” Trevor asks when he pulls back. “We can do dinner together. Your choice.”

“My choice of takeout?” I guess.

He grins. I roll my eyes but smile back.

“Yeah, sure,” I tell him.

“And next time,” he says, “I won’t force you on a run with me.”

I am momentarily puzzled before I realize that what I was starting to assume was a nightmare was, in fact, not.

“We... went on a run,” I say.

I was so sure that was a bad dream. Who wakes up at four in the morning to go running? I’m pretty sure the only reason I agreed was because it _was_ four in the morning.

Trevor is puzzled by my tone. “Yes?”

“Oh,” I say. And then, “Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to do that again.”

Trevor looks apologetic. “So, this Friday you’ll come over? No running.”

“No running,” I agree.

He kisses me again and I leave.

***

It’s still pretty early, so when I get back to Kay’s, he and his wife are still in the middle of breakfast. I try to slink past the dining area without being seen. I should know it’s a useless endeavor.

Kay excuses himself and follows me upstairs. I barely make it to my room before he corners me.

“Where were you last night?” he asks without preamble. I try to ignore the accusation in his tone.

“I stayed at a friend’s,” I tell him vaguely.

“What friend?”

His words sting, and I fight off a retort. “I mentioned I was going to a friend’s place.”

“You didn’t mention you were staying over.” Now, Kay sounds irritated.

But I’m irritated, too. He is not my parent or guardian, and I am not his ward. We have no more responsibility for one another than roommates. I do not know why he insists that he impose himself so thoroughly into my personal life.

“I’ll mention it next time,” I mumble, trying to end this conversation as quickly as possible.

“Why don’t you get a cellphone?” Kay asks, frustrated now. “That way I can text you if you aren’t home. It’ll be easier.”

I have no interest in a cellphone, and the thought of Kay using it to monitor me even more closely than he already does makes me want one even less. I’ve seen stories on the news where wanted criminals have been tracked with a GPS tracker on their cellphone. Somehow, I wouldn’t put it past Kay to try to track my exact geographical location in a similar fashion.

I do not want that. I do not want a cellphone, and I do not want to be watched.

“I don’t need a cellphone,” I tell Kay.

“Couldn’t you borrow your _friend’s_ phone?” Kay pushes.

I do not like the way he says _friend_. It’s full of accusation. While Trevor isn’t paying me for my time, I suppose I can no longer say that he and I are simply friends. Most friends don’t sleep with each other, I don’t think. I’m not sure how to define what we are—friends with benefits, perhaps?—but regardless, it’s none of Kay’s business. I will not feel guilty for what I’ve done.

It’s easier said than done, though. It’s easy to make me feel guilty. And considering this is the guy who offered his home to me when I had no other real options, he’s able to guilt me like very few people can. Even if the guilt is wrapped in layers of irritation, frustration, and exasperation, it’s there.

“I didn’t think to ask,” I say. “And I forgot your number.”

I let Kay lecture me further without a word.

“I don’t know why you don’t believe me when I say I’m just concerned for you.”

I let him scratch out his phone number on a piece of scrap paper.

“I wouldn’t need to do this if you had a cellphone. They save all this information for you.”

I let him remind me how much of an inconvenience I am.

“You know I want you to have another chance at a life, but you need to take it more seriously. You need to be a little more responsible.”

When he finally leaves, I crawl into my bed. Even though I slept all night at Trevor’s, I have no energy to do anything other than sleep. Sleep is an excellent way to hide from the world. And right now, I just want to do exactly that.

***

When I wake up, I wish I could just hibernate in my room for the rest of the day. But my stomach is rumbling. I remember I haven’t eaten yet today. I don’t want to risk running into Kay again. I’m really not up for another round of lectures. But my stomach convinces me to take the risk.

I slip down the stairs as quietly as I can manage. It turns out, though, that my sneak skills are unnecessary. Kay isn’t anywhere to be seen. Neither is Carol.

After I make something quick and effortless—cheese toast and a glass of whatever was in the pitcher in the fridge—I notice Jess in the living room, lounging on the couch.

“Oh, hey, Markus,” she says. “Wanna join me? I’m just watching some terrible sitcom.”

There isn’t any reason to tell her no, so I sit next to her and place my plate and cup on the coffee table.

“We can put something else on, if you’d prefer.”

I shrug and take another bite of my cheese toast. I’ve never gotten into any specific shows. I normally don’t watch a lot of TV. I’m excellent at being a boring person. I work, I sleep, and I eat. I don’t even have any hobbies. Unless you count tagging along with acquaintances to amusement parks and other places.

Now I’m just wallowing in self-pity.

I push my thoughts away and take another bite of my cheese toast, trying to tune into the show. I’m really not doing a good job at understanding what’s going on. I think most of the jokes are a continuation of previously established things. Or I’m too stupid to understand them.

“Oh, um, Markus,” Jess says suddenly. “I wanted to say, um, thanks. For you know. The condoms.”

I nod and take another bite.

“It’s just… well, he didn’t think to get any. And I learned some stuff about, well—you know—how easy it is to get, um, pregnant and whatnot,” she continues.

I nod again. I understand the sentiment of what she’s saying, even if I don’t know who this “he” is that she’s referring to. A boyfriend or something, I suppose.

“He should’ve gotten some, but he didn’t. It was weird to bring it up, you know? So, I had to. Get condoms, I mean,” Jess says, her tone growing fiercer. I think she’s no longer merely explaining herself—not that she needs to—to ranting.

I suppose I’m actually a good person to rant at. I may not know what to say, but I’m good at listening, so I don’t try to stop her.

“But I’ve been thinking about it, and, like… what if I need a pregnancy test? I mean, I should get one and check, right?”

I nod again.

“I just... I’m so scared, you know?” She looks at me, her eyes wide.

I realize she actually wants me to say something. I swallow my bite of cheese toast and offer, “Oh. I could go with you if you want.”

She shakes her head. “No, I can’t—I mean. What if my dad sees? Plus, I mean, he talks to people. What if he hears from the pharmacist or something—I just don’t want this getting back to my dad. Not yet.”

I can honestly say I understand why.

“I suppose,” I say slowly, “I could get one for you.”

“Oh, really?” Jess’ expression lights up. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you need money or anything? I have some pocket money for—”

“I can get it,” I offer. It somehow feels awkward to accept money from a seventeen-year-old teenager when I hold a full-time job and have no bills to call my own. I can practically hear Kay lecturing me about it in my head.

“Really? Oh, Markus, you’re the best! We should have time if you just go to the convenience store at the end of the block. I can take it and throw it away so my parents don’t find it when they get home.”

It takes me a second to realize exactly what she’s saying. “You want me to get it now?”

Jess misunderstands my tone and babbles, “Yeah, we should have time. My parents left like thirty minutes ago for dinner. I think they’ll be gone another hour or so, but I’m not sure. They like their Sunday date nights.”

I look at the other slice of cheese toast still on my plate mournfully before I stand. “Yeah, I can get it now.”

“Thank you so much!” she calls after me as I leave.

It’s only a few minutes’ walk to the convenience drug store near Kay’s neighborhood. I don’t know too much about pregnancy tests and if they’re more accurate the more expensive they are, but I have the money to grab the priciest one on the shelf.

I’m about to head for the cashier when I remember that Trevor invited me over to his place again on Friday. I gave all my condoms to Jess because I sort of assumed I wasn’t going to be doing anything sexual with anybody in the near future. But Trevor has made his sexual appetite apparent, and I can’t say that I trust him completely not to mix up the condoms in his night stand drawer and the ones he tacked up over his bed.

I turn and head back to pick out a large box of condoms. It’s habit—I’m used to needing several a week, and the fewer trips to the store for them, the better.

The cashier rings me out and comments, “At least you’re a responsible boyfriend.”

I notice her eyes on the pregnancy test and mutter, “That’s not for me.”

“Well, obviously it’s not for you,” she laughs, handing me my change.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I mumble.

“As long as you’re responsible,” the cashier says with a wink.

I decide to stop trying to argue the point and take the bag and make the walk back to Kays’. Am I responsible for getting Jess a pregnancy test? Maybe, perhaps. Am I irresponsible for getting her a pregnancy test and not telling her parents about it? Maybe, perhaps. I just don’t find it my place to interfere, and Jess’ business is not mine.

And yet, a small part of me hopes that Kay never learns just how Jess came by a pregnancy test if he ever finds out about it. I don’t need more reasons for him to guilt and lecture me.

Jess actually hugs me when I return with her test. I’m startled by the action and stand stiffly until she releases me.

“Thank you so much!” she says in a rush, taking her test and fleeing upstairs, likely to use it.

I take a moment to put the box of condoms in my room before returning to the living room to finish my cold cheese toast. The TV is still on, and I figure Jess planned on returning once she was done taking her test.

I finish my cheese toast, and watch several episodes of the terrible sitcom, but Jess doesn’t come back downstairs. I’m quick to dart up to my room when I hear Kay and his wife chatting just outside the front door, though.

I assume, as usual, that Jess’ business is none of my concern and pass her room to get to my own. I’ve slept most of the day away, but I crash onto my bed, ready to continue my hibernation.

I’m good at avoiding things. I’m good at hiding. And sleep is the easiest way to do both.


	15. Chapter 15

Trevor has become a regular accessory at my work. He doesn’t always linger, and he doesn’t always try to talk to me. I think he’s honestly coming by for a bite to eat—his obsession with quick takeout is not unknown to me at this point—but it throws me off.

I don’t know why. Like I said, it isn’t even like he comes by every time to see me.

Sometimes I catch a glance of his profile as he walks to the door, an order of fresh pancakes in his hands as he heads elsewhere to eat because the few tables the eatery offers are full during a meal rush. Sometimes I ring him out, and he offers me pleasantries and leaves without pressing me to take my meal break and eat with him.

Maybe I want him to be stopping by just for me. Maybe I want him to ask me to eat with him. Maybe I want him to seek me out every time he comes in. Maybe I want the attention. Maybe the lack of it is bothering me. Maybe I think he isn’t as interested in me as I originally thought.

I don’t know. I honestly don’t. My thoughts are a chaotic spiral.

Especially the time when he finally asks me to eat with him. Although, it’s not that he asks me to eat with him, but the conversation we have.

It’s near the end of my shift, and I wait to accept his offer until I clock out. I’m not overly hungry, but Trevor pushes his small order of strawberry pancakes towards me, a silent invitation to share.

And because he even nabbed an extra fork for me to use, I can’t say no to his offer.

“Mm,” Trevor hums loudly, remembering something. “We should take a picture together.”

I offer him my full attention. “Why?” I ask suspiciously.

“So today at work, right?” Trevor says. “My coworker was asking me what my boyfriend looked like. He comes by here sometimes, and when I mentioned you worked here, he was curious if he’s seen you before. Like, in passing, obviously. I don’t think you know him.”

There are a lot of things in that series of sentences that leaves me more than a little confused.

I decide to start with the most pressing.

“You have a... boyfriend?”

I’m—something. I’m something at the thought. I think maybe I’m upset. What shade of upset is unclear—jealous? Hurt? Betrayed? I never assumed Trevor and I were exclusive, but something about this leaves me feeling stung.

Even though I only asked a single question, it leaves Trevor as equally baffled as he’s left me. “Do you... not like that term?”

I don’t even know what that means. “I... What does that have to do with it?”

I think my—my brand of _upset _fed into my words because Trevor peers at me, studying me.

“Well,” he says slowly, carefully, “I can use a different term. Um, is ‘partner’ okay?”

“I don’t—I mean, you can use whatever term you want,” I tell him.

He visibly relaxes.

I shouldn’t ask. It’s not my business. But the sting of his words is still eating at me. I try for casual when I ask, “So, you have a boyfriend?”

He smiles. I think it’s flirtatious. I feel a petulant urge to flip the last few bites of strawberry pancakes in his face.

“I do. He’s pretty cute,” Trevor tells me, and yes, that is definitely some degree of flirtation in his tone.

I put my fork down and place my hands in my lap to keep them from doing anything immature.

“I guess I should go home,” I tell him. My thoughts are too loud, too buzzing. I need to get away, to clear my head.

Trevor looks wounded. “But it’s Friday.”

“So it is,” I say, trying to convince myself it doesn’t come out sounding snappish.

Trevor gives me an almost pleading look. “But we have a date today.”

The word _date_ eats at me. I don’t want to hear the word come out of Trevor’s mouth when he has a _boyfriend_. _Dates_ are not something you do with a friend with benefits.

“Spend the day with your boyfriend,” I tell him, standing and moving towards the door.

But Trevor stands and follows me, grabs my wrist. “I’m trying to.”

I glower at his hand. Trevor immediately releases me but follows me out of the café.

“I don’t understand,” Trevor tells me. “You’re mad but I don’t know why. If you don’t like me calling you my boyfriend then wha—oomph.”

His breath leaves him in a whoosh as he smashes into my back. I stopped immediately in my tracks, and he apparently wasn’t expecting it. Slowly, I turn to face him again. “If _I_ don’t like it?”

Trevor looks at a loss. “Do you? Not like it, that is?”

I am yet again marveling at Trevor. I’m also fighting off a wave of embarrassment. Apparently, I was throwing a tantrum—I suppose is the only word for it, though it seems an extreme one—and I was misunderstanding Trevor completely. But back to the marveling...

He thinks I’m his boyfriend.

“You never asked,” I mumble, still embarrassed.

“Asked what?”

“Asked if I wanted to be your boyfriend.”

Trevor opens and closes his mouth a few times, several false starts to saying something. Finally, he lets out a gusty breath. “You’re right, yeah. I guess I just assumed. I mean, we... well, we even…” He straightens, clears his throat, and so seriously asks, “Markus, will you be my boyfriend?”

It’s ridiculous. It’s corny. It’s oddly... adorable. Sort of.

I shrug and look at the ground, trying to decide if I can trust my voice.

“You’re blushing.”

I still don’t know if I can trust my voice to play our odd game, so I shake my head.

“You are,” he says.

I shake my head more vehemently.

“It’s cute.”

Help me now.

“You’re blushing harder,” he points out unnecessarily.

I’m scowling at the sidewalk.

“So, will you?”

I’ve lost track of this conversation. I mumble, “Will I what?”

“Be my boyfriend. Go out with me.”

It’s a small movement, just a quick jerk, but I nod.

Trevor whoops. “Don’t leave me in suspense like that!”

I bite my lip.

“So, you’re still coming to my place?”

I nod.

His smile is wide and bright. “So, about that picture.”

I frown. “What picture?”

“Well, I said we should take a picture together.”

I nearly forgot. He looks at me, his phone in his hands, askance. I shrug and mutter, “Sure.”

He is going to regret this. I am not photogenic.

Trevor moves in close, snakes a hand around my middle, and puts his face close to mine. I’m glancing sidelong at him, not even looking towards the phone, when I hear the device make a _click _noise.

Trevor eagerly looks at the new picture. I glance more soberly. While Trevor looks good, all smiles and good posture, it looks like I’m being held at gunpoint, my face crumpled up in startled alarm as I look at Trevor.

I hope he regrets his choice.

“It’s great!” Trevor says enthusiastically.

I’m not sure what’s so great about it.

“You look kinda cute,” Trevor tells me. He fiddles with his phone for a moment before sliding it back into his pocket. “It’s a very _you_ picture.”

I’m not sure I know what that means.

But I don’t have long to wonder. Trevor starts rolling his shoulders. “After all that, I have energy to burn. Race you home?”

“Oh, God,” I yelp quietly. I am not ready to face off against the cheetah in his natural habitat when I am a fat, lazy turtle in comparison. “You can run if you want. I’ll meet you there.”

Trevor looks disappointed. “You don’t like running, do you?”

My head shake is almost frantically vehement.

Trevor deflates, his arms falling still. “I guess we can walk.”

I’m relieved, but as we walk to his apartment, I’m filled with an odd giddiness.

I’m walking with my boyfriend. To my boyfriend’s apartment.

I’ve never called someone my boyfriend before. I’ve had sexual relationships, and quite a number of them. I’ve had more intimate—I suppose—sexual relationships before. But I’ve never had someone ask to be my boyfriend.

I don’t know yet if I like it. It’s too new to know. But it does leave me feeling some sort of excited anticipation.

***

My giddy excitement withers when Trevor opens the front door of his apartment. He opens the door and gestures me in, but I stumble back, my hand over my nose. I send him a betrayed, accusing look.

“You said you were going to keep on top of cleaning,” I tell him.

He grows instantly sheepish. “I’ve been busy.”

“With _what_?”

He shrugs and I sigh. We step into his apartment.

“I’ll get some dinner,” Trevor tells me.

I’m not overly hungry. The pancakes weren’t a full meal, and we also left them unfinished, but I’ve never had a voracious appetite. However, I’m too busy staring to say anything back. I hear him a moment later on the phone.

There is no longer a kitchen. It is just trash. Bags upon bags heaped. It looks like they originally were meant to be confined to the corner of the room, but the corner of the kitchen did not allow enough space for a mountain of garbage, and it tumbled everywhere.

As Trevor orders takeout, I gather up bags and begin the slow process of transferring them to the trash receptacle outside the apartment building. Trevor tries to insist I shouldn’t, but I know that if _I_ don’t, _he _won’t. He reluctantly joins me.

It takes us thirty minutes to gather up all the trash bags, and then to gather up the straggling garbage laying around his apartment in the form of empty, abandoned takeout containers.

By the time we’re done, the delivery guy is knocking on the door with our takeout. I wash my hands very carefully in his very full sink and Trevor lays the food down on the newly-cleared off living room table. He grabs a roll from the bag, and I wonder where he ordered takeout from because of all the places he’s ordered from, I haven’t seen rolls on the takeout menu—

My mind clears of all thoughts as I watch Trevor open a drawer, fiddle around, and pull out a chopstick. He then proceeds to jab at the roll with the chopstick. I watch this catastrophe unfold for several long moments.

I finally step in when his roll looks ready to fall to pieces in his hand.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Well, I thought I could cute this in half,” he tells me, brow furrowed in concentration.

“With a... chopstick?”

“I don’t have any other clean silverware.”

That can’t be true. I tentatively peer inside the drawer that’s still open beside him and find that it is very empty. Not completely empty. There’s one of those plastic bins people get to hold their silverware, with slots for each type.

But that’s the only thing in there. There isn’t even another chopstick to match the one Trevor is using as a blunt saw to complete a pair. I glance at the sink, and while it is rather full of plates and bowls and cups, I don’t see very many forks or spoons.

Trevor must read my thoughts. “Uh, don’t open the dishwasher.”

I look at the dishwasher in question. “Why?”

“Uh, just don’t.”

So, of course, I do.

I regret it instantly.

Nothing is neatly stacked or organized.

Sometimes, when a parent threatens a child to “clean your room or else you can’t have dessert” or “you can’t have a slumber party” or some other great tragedy, the child will gather up everything in their room, and stuff it somewhere. Maybe they’re sneaky. Maybe they stuff it all in their dresser drawers. Maybe they just go with what’s easiest and cram it under their bed, letting the length of their quilt hide the hidden pile from view.

Trevor uses his dishwasher the same way a threatened child uses the dark side of his closet or under his bed to clean up.

An empty pitcher is jammed so tightly between some pots that it spews out and clatters to the floor. Several pots follow. And then some plates. A few bowls. A waterfall of forks and spoons and knives and other cooking instruments.

I watch the avalanche in quiet horror.

Trevor clears his throat. “I did tell you, um, not to open that. Um, what are you doing?”

I’m doing what he won’t. I’m going to make this apartment safety-hazard free.

I immediately pause in organizing his dirty dishes as I realize there are too many to fit in the sink. That might be a problem.

“Do you have a hamper or something?”

“Yes,” Trevor says in a tone that’s suspicious.

I’m not sure I want to know why, so I barrel on, “Go get it.”

“Um, I—”

I don’t want to know. “Get something to store some of these dishes in.”

“Can’t we use the dishwasher?”

“That’s the plan.”

He’s confused. I’m growing frustrated. “We need to store the dirty dishes in something so I can load up the dirty dishes in the dish washer. Like, actually load them up. Not cram them in. They won’t get clean that way. But there are too many to fit in at once.”

He seems to understand that well enough and fetches an empty clothing hamper. I carefully fill it with dishes.

I’ve never seen anything so ridiculous. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anything so ridiculous. But there really isn’t any other option, and I need a battle strategy. I load as many of the remaining dirty pots, pans, bowls, plates, cups, and miscellaneous pieces into the dishwasher as it can hold. Trevor fills it with dish detergent, and we close it.

“Get a towel,” I tell him.

“For what?”

“So we can wash some silverware to use to eat.”

“Oh, I asked for them to bring some plastic from the restaurant. We’re covered.” He sounds proud.

“We should still probably clean up some of the—”

“Well, we won’t get good water pressure while the dish washer is running,” Trevor says, pushing some buttons to get the dishwasher into a wash cycle. “So we have some time to eat. Plus, the food will get cold if we wait any longer to eat.”

He has a point, I suppose, so I follow him into the living room to eat. He suggests a movie, and I shrug. We eat as we watch the movie. When we’re finished, I pause the movie.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Get up,” I tell him, getting to my own feet. Confused, he listens. I pull the couch cushions off the couch.

“What are you doing?” he asks again.

I cannot tolerate the state of this apartment anymore. And if Trevor and I are officially dating, and I’m going to be coming over more often on a regular basis, I need this apartment hazard free.

The lost treasures of Atlantis are no longer going to hide in the nooks and crannies of Trevor’s furniture.

“Get a trash bag,” I tell him.

He catches on. Looking pained, he says, “Some of those are antiques—”

“Everything in here is an antique,” I mutter. “If it’s old enough, it can be considered an antique, and I’m pretty sure everything in here is old enough to count.” 

“Well, I’m pretty sure they’re priceless—”

“They’re broken.”

“But…” He drifts off and gives a gusty sigh before retrieving a trash bag.

I almost wonder if I need gloves to handle some of the things we find. It seems an ecosystem has bubbled up from the depths of the fabric of the couch. If something is whole and intact, I put it aside. If something is broken, I throw it away. Trevor raises a fuss.

“I got that ten years ago and—”

I ignore him and bury the broken pieces in the trash bag.

When the couch is treasure and trash free, I push the cushions back in place. We switch out the freshly cleaned dishes for another load of dirty.

I am _astounded _at how empty the shelves of Trevor’s pantry are. They give no indication that they’re used. They look as barren as they would if the apartment were being shown to a new potential tenant.

No wonder Trevor has so many dirty dishes. He literally has not a single clean _anything_.

We vacuum. We sweep. We dust. We organize. We continue to cycle through rounds of dirty dishes. We spent a grand total of six hours cleaning.

I hate cleaning.

I think this is some kind of record for me. I’ve never been a super tidy person, but I go through the daily or weekly motions of keeping my space regularly cleaned.

I’m sore and exhausted by the time I’m content with the state of the apartment. The only room we haven’t touched is his bedroom. It was cluttered the last time I was in there, but I don’t think there were any major health risks.

“Come to bed,” Trevor tells me, taking my hand.

I yawn. I’m too tired to fight him, so I let him lead me to the bedroom. I notice the clothes I borrowed before for the morning run are tossed on the floor. I don’t think I put those there. But then I notice the state of the rest of the room.

I halt in my tracks.

“What...” I can’t find my voice. I try again, “What happened?”

Trevor looks around. Then, he looks sheepish. “I was stashing all my dirty clothes in my closet. But, um, I needed clean clothes for work. Well, clean-ish clothes. So I, um, went digging through my closet for something to wear.”

“Digging through his closet” doesn’t seem to summarize the mess his room has become. It looks like he chucked things blindly over his shoulder in his haste to search for clothes, more like. There’s a pair of boxers hanging off the lampshade. Somehow, some socks managed to catch the blades of the ceiling fan and dangle from them like they’re playing dress-up as a ghetto chandelier.

My sigh is weary this time as I go to the kitchen to retrieve the forgotten hamper.

“What are you doing?” Trevor asks me when I return with it in my hands.

“Laundry, I guess,” I mutter, tossing clothes into the basket without ceremony.

“I didn’t want you to play maid,” Trevor tells me.

I didn’t want to play maid. “You take that half of the room, and I’ll take this half.”

Reluctantly, he does. He mutters apologies to me, and I remind him that his apologies won’t do the laundry for him, and he resumes gathering clothes. He carries the basket into the laundry room and I toss in large handfuls. I push some buttons at random, toss in the soap Trevor gives me, and we return to his room to collapse on his bed.

“Thank you,” Trevor murmurs against my neck.

I murmur something, but I’m too tired to know what it was supposed to be. I’m warm and comfortable and so very, very tired. Trevor brackets himself around me, and I want to push him away, to tell him it’s too hot to cuddle or something. But I don’t have the energy to summon the words.

And so, instead, I fall asleep with his arms around me.


	16. Chapter 16

When I wake up, Trevor is doing crunches on the floor. His face is flushed and he has a light sheen of sweat on his skin.

“What time is it?” I mumble.

He pauses to pull out his phone and check the time. “Seven-thirty,” he says as he resumes his crunches.

“How long have you been up?” I stretch and try to shake off the desire to curl up and fall back asleep.

“Since four,” he says.

I’m momentarily confused before I remember. Trevor has the odd routine of waking up before dawn to sprint around town like he takes part in a daily Olympics competition.

Trevor seems content to finish his daily workout without much comment, so I slip into the bathroom to use the toilet and swipe a finger across my teeth with some toothpaste. And because I know Trevor is likely to forget about the laundry, I return to the washer to throw the clothes into the dryer. While I’m not fond of the idea of playing maid, I’m less fond of the idea of returning to visit Trevor’s apartment if it’s covered in trash, dirty dishes, and dirty laundry.

I don’t like how many options the dryer has. Instead of a crank nob, there are numerous push buttons. I notice that when I press one of the buttons, it lights up a different option or a different setting.

I have no idea what the settings or options mean, though I can’t imagine it makes a difference which I use, so I select one at random and turn it on. Then, I load up the washer with another load of dirty clothes and do the same.

I have no idea what to do with myself, so I go into the living. And I stop in my tracks.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, we never did finish that game of _Monopoly_,” Trevor tells me, clicking a house onto a tile of the game board. “Figured we could try to finish it. I... think I remember how the board looked?” But he doesn’t sound completely sure and peers down at it. “Did you own Pennsylvania Avenue, or was that one mine?”

I am not prepared for another round of that game. I will never be prepared for another round of that game. I act swiftly.

“What are you...?” Trevor asks when I advance.

I kiss him. Trevor makes an appreciative noise and his hands come up to pull me closer. I let him. His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw and I tilt my head to encourage him. His lips go down my neck and I return the favor, mirroring what he does as best as I can, unwilling to let him break free of my distraction.

It works. He guides me away from the living room, into his bedroom. He pushes me gently onto the bed, and we pull ourselves free of clothing. I may have been disgruntled at Trevor’s lack of sexual knowledge before, but he proves to be a quick study. He manages the condom and lube much better this time.

And after, Trevor nuzzles against me, kissing my forehead. “Was it good?”

I nod, feeling slimy and gross.

“Should I do something differently or anything?” he asks.

I’m confused. I shake my head.

“But it was good?” he presses.

“It was fine,” I tell him.

“But I...” He drifts off, a contemplative expression on his face. “Actually, hang on,” he mutters.

Trevor gets out of bed, puts his boxers on, and leaves the bedroom for a moment. When he returns, he has a paper in one and a pen in the other. He hands them to me.

I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with either.

“For you,” Trevor clarifies.

I look down. The paper reads “Your satisfaction is the number one priority” at the top. Below that are a series of questions. It looks like someone scribbled out certain words and wrote a new one to replace it over the original.

_What can be improved on your next <s>visit</s> encounter?  
__Did you receive special attention from <s>an employee</s> Trevor?  
__What is your overall satisfaction level?  
__On a scale of 1 (not very likely) to 10 (very likely), how likely are you to _<s>recommend our brand</s> want a repeat performance?

Am I supposed to answer these?

Trevor must notice my baffled expression. He clears his throat. “Well, I don’t know much about this gay sex stuff, but I want you to be happy, you know, in bed. This one product we sell comes with a questionnaire and people usually fill it out and I was just thinking... maybe I could tweak it so I could give it to you to fill out? About our”—his face turns a rosy shade—“you know… Maybe it was stupid. But I’d like you to try to fill it out.”

I do not even know what to say. Trevor is looking at me expectantly. I fumble with the pen. When Trevor doesn’t look away, I awkwardly scratch out some answers to the questions and hand the paper back to him. He takes it excitedly, smiling as his eyes scan over it.

His smile slowly drops away.

“What can be improved... you said ‘no.’”

I did, yes.

“And for the question about ‘did you receive special attention,’ you just wrote in ‘yes.’”

I’m not sure why he’s reading my answers off to me.

“That’s all?” he asks. “Just ‘yes’? You could put something specific that you liked, though.”

He looks at me pleadingly. I shrug, feeling awkward and on the spot. After a moment, he drops that issue to move onto the next question on the paper.

“Your overall satisfaction level is yes?” he asks.

“I was satisfied,” I tell him, in case he needs clarification.

“And I scored an 8.” He pauses. He looks up at me, wounded. “What did I do wrong?”

“Well,” I fumble. “Um. Always room for improvement, right?”

“But what did I do wrong?” he presses. “What should I do differently? Do you want me to—” He cuts himself off to gesture towards my lower half. I frown, confused, and he says, “I can, you know, go down on you or something.”

Oh. I shake my head quickly. “No, it’s not that. It was good.”

Trevor is more and more distressed. “But good should always be improved to ‘great’ or ‘excellent.’”

This conversation is exhausting me.

“We should shower,” I cut in, trying to derail this mess as quickly as I can.

“Will you at least think on it?” Trevor asks as I stand up. He still sounds distressed. “So I can find things to improve on?”

“Sure,” I reply, though I’m not sure at all. I just want to dive out of this conversation as fast as possible.

“Okay,” Trevor relaxes. “You go ahead and shower and I’ll go get some clean clothes. You can borrow some of mine, if you want?”

Normally, I’m not sure I’d like to wear someone else’s clothes. But my mind whispers the word _boyfriend_, and I remember I’m not really strangers with Trevor anymore.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I say.

I take a quick shower and towel off. Trevor slipped in at some point and put some clothes on the closed toilet for me. I’m relieved he didn’t ask to join me this time. I’m not sure what boyfriends are supposed to do with each other, but I still like taking a shower by myself. I’m also relieved that they aren’t the workout shorts and sleeveless top he tossed at me last time. These shorts are looser, more comfortable looking, and the shirt is a simple T-shirt that’s well worn and soft.

When I come out of the bathroom, I find Trevor in the open area of his living room. He’s flexing his arms and admiring himself.

Why?

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He stops and turns to me. “My shirts shrank,” he says.

“How?” I ask, frowning.

“I think there’s some kind of setting the dryer has to be on to dry cotton. Lower heat or something? Otherwise, I guess it all shrinks down. Or maybe it was that the washer was supposed to be on a certain setting, so it uses cooler water? Or both?” He screws his face up as he thinks. “I’m not sure. But everything shrank.”

I feel a sense of horror.

“Also, all my white clothes are pink,” he goes on. He says it rather casually, but…

I feel my sense of horror increase.

“The... shirt you’re wearing,” I say, “was it always pink?”

“It was white before we washed it,” Trevor says, looking down at his shirt in question, which is now a soft rosy shade.

“I...”

It’s too little, too late, but I now remember being told at some point that it’s imperative to separate white clothes from those with color—especially red—to keep the white clothes from soaking up loose dye while they’re washing together.

“How many shirts did I ruin?” I ask, my horror morphing into stress.

Trevor shrugs. “You didn’t really ruin them. I think they’ll stretch out again and besides—”

“But how many?” I ask again.

He shrugs again. “Maybe a dozen? I got most of them cheap on sale or something, and I can get more. I’m not worried about it, though.”

I cast him a dubious look.

“Well, look,” he says, flexing his arm again. “They’re super tight now. I can show off all this muscle I’m building!”

I’m not sure why I didn’t expect this type of reaction from the guy who has such a ridiculous daily exercise routine.

“I’ll still replace them,” I say. “They’re pink.”

“It’s just my workout shirts that were white,” Trevor says. “Besides, you missed the part where they shrunk down so much that they show off my muscles!”

He flexes his arm again. I suppose if I were a vainer person, I would actually appreciate what I’m looking at. The shirt _is_ very tight on Trevor’s body, and if I hadn’t known he liked to work out, I would definitely know it after seeing him in this shirt. The fabric is pulled so tight over his stomach that I can see the grooves of his abdominal muscles.

Trevor raises an arm to flex again and offers me a sly smirk. “I look good, right? Half the joy in getting muscles like these is showing them off. Best thing for that is tight clothes.”

Despite my agitation, I give him a small, amused smile.

“It should only take a thousand pushups or so to stretch it out, anyway,” he goes on casually. “That’s pretty easy.”

“A thousand pushups?” I echo, horrified at the sheer immensity of the number. “You do that many?”

“Oh, yes,” Trevor says. “Wanna see?”

I can only stare, still not sure he’s serious.

“Hey,” Trevor says, “if you want to see what a thousand pushups look like, I’ll happily show you. No need to be shy about it.”

“I... I guess,” I say. I’m less interested in seeing someone do a thousand pushups than I am being able to say that I know someone who _could_ do a thousand pushups in one session.

Trevor wastes no time. Immediately he starts, counting off as he goes.

“How do you have the energy to do that many?” I mutter, more to myself.

Trevor hears and answers anyway. “I’m not sure that—sixteen—it has anything to do with—seventeen—energy, honestly. Once you—eighteen—have the upper body strength—nineteen—to do pushups, it’s—twenty—easy to do a lot—twenty-one—at once.”

I’m amazed how he can speak, do his pushups, and keep count of them all at once.

“This isn’t actually—twenty-five—much of a challenge—twenty-six—and I like a—twenty-seven—challenge. You could—twenty-eight—sit on my back—twenty-nine—if you want.”

I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.

I must say that out loud, because Trevor says. “Not really—thirty-two—ridiculous, honestly. I—thirty-three—see people do it—thirty-four—all the time for—thirty-five—strength training.”

I’m still not sure.

“Well, we could—forty-one—figure out who had—forty-two—Pennsylvania Avenue—forty-three—and play _Monopoly_—forty-four—if you prefer.”

I do not prefer. I quickly step towards him and watch as his rises and falls, rises and falls.

“Just… climb on your back?” I ask to make sure.

“Yeah, just—fifty-seven—climb abord the—fifty-eight—flex-machine.”

I snort at the term and tentatively sit on Trevor’s back. At first, I sit like he’s a bench. It’s not very comfortable, so I shift my position to find something that is.

In the end, I’m laying across his back, my head tucked between his neck and shoulder, my hands folded on my stomach. Below me, Trevor continues his pushups, keeping count of them.

I don’t really have a lot more to say to him, so I stay mostly quiet. He says a few things, mostly near the beginning of his routine.

“Counting aloud also—eighty-eight—helps with lung—eighty-nine—capacity and—ninety—breathing technique.”

I’m not sure I understand how, but I don’t argue the point. I’ve never seriously worked out a day in my life. I’m a scrap of a person, thin and slender. Who am I to question Trevor’s logic?

By three hundred, he falls quiet, save his counting.

By five hundred, I’m dozing off and on.

By eight hundred, my stomach growls and it helps keep me awake.

When Trevor hits a thousand, he lets his body drop to the ground, lying on his stomach, arms spread around his head in a loose circle.

“Not so hard, see?” he says. His breathing isn’t labored, but it also isn’t quite unaffected.

“Only took an hour and a half,” I tease, rolling off of him to lay next to him on the ground.

“What?” Trevor looks at me in offense. “I thought it took closer to an hour.”

I shake my head and Trevor mutters a curse.

“Guess my new goal is a thousand in an hour,” he tells me.

The idea seems ridiculous to me. “Seems impressive enough to me that you can do it at all.”

Trevor rolls over onto his back and looks at me. “I’ve never tried before,” he admits, “but like I said, once you have the upper body strength to do a pushup, it’s just a matter of endurance to be able to do so many at once. But I think I might’ve overdone it.”

“You think?” I mutter.

He smiles. “I can already feel my muscles getting sore.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Well, that’s just my muscles’ way of talking to me, right? I’m just flattered they put forth the effort to communicate with me.”

I’m not sure about that.

“Take out for early lunch?” he asks me.

“Same as ever,” I agree.


	17. Chapter 17

I spend a lot of time at Trevor’s.

It’s sort of a vicious cycle.

I stay a night or two at Trevor’s on the weekend. I refuse to give Kay many details about my weekend plans beyond a quick mention Friday morning that “I might not be home for the weekend” because things are worse if I stay away for a day or two without a word than they are if I give him a head’s up. Kay always pushes and presses to know more—what time do I think I’ll be home? Where am I going? What friend? Where does this friend live? I squirm and stay mostly quiet with the occasional quick, one-word replies when Kay insists on getting an answer out of me. Kay grows more and more persnickety every time I come home from Trevor’s, pushing for more and more details.

It makes me want to stay away even more.

Except the more I stay away, the more Kay pushes for answers.

He’s “concerned,” he tells me. He’s “just concerned,” he always stresses. He’s “just concerned about me,” he always says. He never has any other reason or explanation for wanting answers to his probing questions.

I never want to hear the word “concerned” again.

But I do wind up spending a lot of time at Trevor’s, and I learn a lot about him.

***

I learn that Trevor does his best to attempt to clean when given instructions to do so.

“When’s the last time you cleaned your ceiling fan?” I ask, peering up at it.

“Why would I clean it?” Trevor asks, bemused.

“You should clean it,” I tell him. “Dust will get all over your bedroom otherwise.”

He thinks about that for a moment before conceding. “Yeah, I suppose.”

I also learn that Trevor never wipes down a surface until it is unmistakably and visibly filthy. So, he digs out some rags and cleaning spray and trudges into his bedroom while I take a soaped up sponge to his counters.

It’s only a few minutes later that I hear a thump. I pause, frowning, and strain my ears. And yes, I can hear it if I remain absolutely quiet.

_Thud_.

“Ow.”

A pause.

_Thud_.

“Ow.”

Another pause.

_Thud._

“Ow.”

This continues on repeat for several minutes. I leave the sponge on the sudsy counter to investigate. I toe open the door to Trevor’s room and—

_Thud_. A blade of the ceiling fan thwacks against Trevor’s hand.

“Ow.”

He flinches back for a moment before reaching up with the rag again, holding his arm at an awkwardly high angle so his fingers can slowly sink down to skim along the tops of the fan blades, rag in hand. Until his fingers dangle too far down and—

_Thud_. A blade thwacks against his hand again.

Trevor hastily yanks his hand back, flexing his fingers, grumbling, “Ow.”

“What are you doing?” I can’t hold back the question.

Trevor startles and looks at me. He’s standing on his bed, leaning dangerously over the edge of it to reach the ceiling fan that’s perhaps a meter from the bottom of the mattress. His hair has wet looking clumps of dirt sticking to it.

“Cleaning the ceiling fan,” he tells me, matter-of-fact.

I squint between him and the ceiling fan, trying to piece together this impossible puzzle. As I watch, Trevor raises the can and sprays a mist of cleaning solution in the general direction of the fan, quickly ducking and covering his eyes for several seconds as the spray settles, some of it on the blades, but most of it blown back towards the ground by the breeze created by the blades that are still moving.

I try to speak, but I can only watch this disaster unfold, absolutely mute.

Once Trevor no longer feels droplets hitting his arms, he tentatively peeks between his fingers to make sure the coast is clear. Then, he resumes his previous, odd dance of leaning forward on the bed and awkwardly holding his arm at a high angle so the rag he’s holding can brush off wet clumps of dust. The wind from the fan blows most of the clumps in Trevor’s face, and some more catch in his air.

_Thud_.

“Ow.” He flinches back again.

Finally, I can take no more.

“Why didn’t you turn it off?” I ask.

Trevor pauses his ministrations to look at me. “What? How would—ow!”

He flinches away again.

“It’d probably be a lot less painful if you turn it off,” I tell him, frowning. Peering around at the stray clumps of dust swirling about the room, carried along by the current of wind created by the still-moving fan blades, I add, “And faster to clean.”

“I don’t think I can turn it off,” Trevor tells me. “It’s been on since I moved in.”

I frown harder at him. “What?”

He looks at me helplessly. With a sigh, I retrieve a chair, place it under the ceiling fan, and carefully stand on it so I can reach one of the strings dangling from the ceiling fan. I pull on it. After a second, the fan blades crawl to a stop.

Trevor is goggling at me. “But… but I thought those were for the lights.”

“This second string is,” I say, gesturing to it.

Trevor is still goggling. “But... but I thought it was, like, you know, one string for one of the lightbulbs, and the second string for the other one.”

I’m frowning again as I look at the ceiling fan. “It… has three lightbulbs, though.”

“Well, you know, sometimes those strings break off. I figured that must’ve been what happened.”

I feel a strong wave of exasperation. “So you’ve just let it run—what? Twenty-four-seven because you didn’t think you could turn it off?”

Trevor gives me a sheepish smile.

It’s adorable.

I still think I might throttle him.

It seems Trevor lacks critical thinking.

***

I learn that Trevor takes a lot of things at face value.

When I come over one afternoon after work, he leads me into the living room and sits me on his couch. He nervously paces in front of me, twisting his fingers.

“Terrible. Absolutely fucking terrible,” he keeps muttering.

I take a moment to glance around his apartment for something he’s managed to break or some kind of rubbish heap he’s discovered. I’m not sure what’s terrible, but his nervous energy has me growing anxious.

“We should talk, okay? We need to— Can we talk? It’s… We need to talk, Markus.” He looks at me earnestly, his face set in hard lines of odd determination.

I swallow. “Is it bad?”

“It’s—yes. It’s very bad. It’s pretty terrible. Absolutely regrettable,” he tells me, frowning at me.

I knew he would regret me.

_I’m something worth regretting_, I want to remind him.

“Okay,” I say, but it comes out closer to a whisper.

He sits down next to me. Lets his leg bounce. Grabs at his hair to clutch his head.

I swallow. I’m not sure I actually want to hear it. Yeah, maybe… Maybe I should just leave, flee.

I can’t be abandoned if I leave first.

“I can...” I say, scuttling to the edge of the couch, about to get up. I try to say again, “I can...”

My chest feels like a hollow, rotten thing. I feel numb. I can’t even feel my heartbeat. I feel... nothing, other than a terrible numbness.

Trevor takes me hand, clasps it in both of his. “We’ll get through this, right? We’ll get through this.”

_Don’t fight for something you regret_, I want to say, my terrible, self-deprecating mind putting the words in my head.

But Trevor’s hand is warm around mine, and I’m too cowardly to leave without hearing what he has to say. Or maybe I’m a coward for staying. I don’t know.

I nod, slow and tentative.

Trevor takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, and then lets it out in a gusty rush. “I… Well, STDs seemed kind of important to you, so I went to a clinic and was tested after work the other day. I got the results back. Markus, I... I don’t know how to... There isn’t...” He blurts, fast, “I’m HIV-negative.”

Feeling returns to me in a rush, from my fingers and toes, swooping in towards my chest. I can breathe again.

He doesn’t think me a mistake yet. I think.

Honestly, I’m not sure _what _he’s trying to tell me.

“Oh... kay,” I say so slowly the single word is drawn out into two.

He gives me a pleading look.

I feel my brow furrow as I slowly shake my head, not understanding.

“HIV-_negative_,” he repeats. “And we— That first time— Oh, God, Markus, I—I won’t forgive myself for giving it to you.”

I blink slowly at him, once, and then feel my eyes shutter open and closed in a quick, rapid, confused succession, like if I blink fast enough, I’ll clear away the parts of reality that are most baffling me.

“Are you in shock? Oh, I’m so sorry. I… I know that first time, you know, when you went down on me”—his voice lowers to a near-whisper like he dared to utter a terrible slur but dare not use a carrying voice to do so—“we forgot a condom and I... You might... want to get tested.”

He looks dejected, guilty, and—

And wait a minute.

“You... think you gave me HIV?” I ask slowly, trying to follow his string of logic.

He nods miserably.

I contemplate that. I contemplate that so hard I wish I had a mug of tea to sip at to look scholarly or something because this is a scenario that takes a greater mind than mine, and a scholarly brain would likely help me puzzle out what is going on. My simple brain cannot keep up with this.

“HIV-negative?” I repeat, wanting to make sure I have all the clues to this mystery correctly organized in my non-scholarly mind.

He nods miserably again.

There’s a smoking gun lying on the floor and a body dead from a knife wound. These facts are not adding up.

I can’t make this puzzle fit together. I can’t solve this baffling mystery. I tap out.

“How would you have given me HIV?” I finally ask.

Now it’s Trevor’s turn to look as though I have given him an impossible puzzle to solve. “I’m... Markus, I’m... you know, I _have _HIV.”

I am not even going to try to solve this one.

“How do you figure that?” I ask slowly.

“Well, it’s... I mean, it’s obvious... isn’t it?” He sounds more and more hesitant with every phrase. Then, he continues on in a rush, “I mean, the test was pass-fail, right? HIV-_negative_... so I failed the test. I have HIV.”

Oh.

Trevor looks alarmed. “Why are you laughing?”

“Don’t scare me like that,” I breathe. “Don’t scare...”

Trevor’s alarm transforms into mild irritation. “This isn’t a laughing matter. Markus. Markus!”

It takes me several long moments to let out my nervous, giddy giggles. I’m so relieved, it all comes out at once and I can’t stop it.

“It’s the other way around,” I tell him, wiping my streaming eyes, relieved that they’re wet because of mirth and not heartbreak. “Your body tested _negative_ for having HIV. It’s not in you, I guess is how you can think about it.”

“I don’t have HIV?” Trevor blinks incredulously at me.

I shake my head, unable to keep an amused smile from curling one side of my mouth.

“You know what that means, don’t you?”

“You’re STD free?”

“We don’t need to use condoms!” he cheers. “You give the best head ever, too!”

“Well,” I say quickly, “I mean...”

I’m not offered a chance to explain that I haven’t been tested recently, that I used to sell my body for money, that I have a fierce condom policy, because Trevor chatters on for a long while in such an animated, excited way that I don’t have an opportunity to cut in.

It seems Trevor is prone to misunderstandings.

***

I learn that Trevor shows his overenthusiasm in odd ways.

He likes sex. I suppose I’m a minority in preferring platonic affection over the sexualized kind. However, I allow Trevor to guide us through the steps of sex, and maybe, perhaps—just sometimes—I use my body as a distraction when Trevor tries to suggest that we play a board game. Or, at least, when one board game in particular crops up in the conversation.

I guess, in a way, it’s win-win. Trevor enjoys the sex, and I get out of terrible situations. I suppose it makes me callous to put it in those terms. It’s not that I dislike the sex. I may not enjoy the physical part of it—it’s dirty, and slimy, and leaves me wanting nothing more than a shower—but I do enjoy the concept of bringing Trevor physical pleasure.

The part I prefer just comes after the slimy, dirty ministrations. I prefer the gentle touching. I prefer his arm around my middle, his head tucked in the juncture between my neck and shoulder, his leg slipping between mine.

He tries to express his feelings through physical pleasure, and when I shy away from those, he is, apparently, distraught.

“Are you afraid I won’t be good at, you know,” he says, gesturing to my lower body, “blowjobs?”

I just got out of the shower, dressed in loose sweatpants and a T-shirt. I sit down on his bed and shrug. I don’t know how to tell him I don’t like to be touched like that.

“I did watch those porns,” he presses. “I saw some techniques. I can—”

I lean in to kiss him. He responds, and when I think I’ve distracted him away from the topic, I pull back. He guides me into his arms and I will never be able to express how much I like being gently held captive in someone’s arms.

But then he jerks away from me. “Oh!” he says. “Wait here a moment.”

So I do. Trevor leaves his bedroom and returns a moment later. I’m eyeing the paper in his hand warily. He offers it to me. I reach out for it like I’m reaching out for a lethal dose of poison I’m expected to administer to myself.

I blink at it. “What is this?”

“Faces,” Trevor says.

Yes, that... that I saw.

It’s a line of faces, actually. They’re simple facial expressions, like emos. There are eight in total. On the left side is a blue cartoon head that’s frowning and in tears. On the right side is a green cartoon head with a comically large smile. There’s even a little diamond on its teeth, like its smile is gleaming in the light.

“What is this?” I ask again, blinking at it.

“Well,” Trevor says, shrugging, “I figured that last questionnaire didn’t go so well. I thought maybe it was overwhelming or something to have to write it all out.”

It was definitely “or something.”

“So,” he continues, “I put this together instead. Just point to the one that best, you know, portrays how you feel after sex. Don’t be afraid to be honest,” he adds quickly at my blank expression. “I want to know.”

I want to know what the point of this is.

I look down at the paper. Trevor is still watching me expectantly, so I point to one near the middle. It’s a head with its mouth wide open and a small, floating hand over the mouth.

Sex always leaves me drained. I still think I have a defective battery, and sex sucks up at least fifty percent of its charge on most days.

Trevor’s face falls. “Boring? So, I should... spice it up?”

I look down at the face and then back up at Trevor, trying to figure out how “I’m tired” translates to “let’s get kinky.”

I try to explain. “It’s tiring.”

“Spicing it up is tiring?” Trevor asks.

This is getting so messy. I put the paper down and crawl closer to him, kissing him. He enthusiastically returns the gesture. I let him get distracted, and I pull back after several long minutes.

“Should we get kinky now?” Trevor asks with a sly smirk.

My distraction did not work. In fact, it backfired.

“I...” I don’t know what to say.

Trevor looks at me expectantly. I feel put on the spot, which makes me feel anxious.

“Why emos?” I blurt.

“Emo—what?” he asks, confused.

“Emos,” I repeat.

Trevor gives me a baffled look.

I grab the paper and shove it at him. “These. Why these? Why emos?”

“Emos,” he says slowly. “You mean emojis?”

“Yeah, emos.”

“They’re called emojis.”

I make an impatient gesture. “Whatever.”

Trevor looks between me and the paper for a long moment before he laughs.

I frown and demand, “What’s so funny?”

“_Emos_?” Trevor says. “You think these all look like miserable teenagers, wearing angsty black?”

I fail to see the connection.

I must say that out loud because Trevor gives me a startled look and starts laughing harder.

“What,” I snap, “is so funny?”

He pulls out his phone and between bouts of chuckles, taps at it. After a moment, he shows it to me.

“The hell is he wearing?” I mutter, peering closer. “And why?”

“That is an emo,” Trevor says, holding a hand up to try to hide his amused smile.

“Then what are those?” I demand, pointing at the paper he let drop to the bed.

“Emo_jis_.”

“There’s a difference?”

He gestures between his phone and the abandoned paper. “I’d say so.”

“I don’t... This isn’t funny.”

“You look like a peeved cat,” he chortles, “who’s all puffed up with his ears back. You know, ruffled with irritation?”

I gape at him. I think I’m offended.

“It’s cute,” he assures me through more chuckles. “It’s really cute.”

I frown at him, but soften.

As it turns out, I didn’t need to turn to sex this time to distract him.

It seems Trevor finds me cute.

***

I spend more and more time at Trevor’s. It’s not a conscious thing, I don’t think. It just happens. Sort of like how a weed will take over a garden if left unchecked.

It seems I love spending time with Trevor. 


	18. Chapter 18

I don’t know what I’m doing.

My coworkers wanted to treat me today. Usually, I cover for them as they slack off. They told me they wanted to show their thanks and let me leave a little early today, to “start my weekend plans early” since it’s Friday.

My only weekend plans only ever involve Trevor. And so here I am. At his work, thirty minutes before he gets off. I was eager at first, excited to surprise him. But now I’m here and my enthusiasm has fizzled out, a fire that couldn’t hold itself together under a deluge of an unexpected drizzle of anxiety

I feel oddly shy. I don’t know where he is in this store—I just know that he works here _somewhere_—and I can’t bring myself to actively look for him. Somehow, it feels like I’m chasing him when I was never given permission to do so. I’d rather he somehow stumble over me by accident and pretend it a happy coincidence than admit I spent the better part of an hour trying to figure out where he is in this store so we can start our “weekend plans” together.

This is me, a person who would rather get caught in a half-truth than admit the full story, because nobody in their right mind would believe that I “just happened” into a store like this and “just happened” to stick around long enough to run into the exact person I was looking for. And the explanation requires a wordcount I do not possess.

“Need help finding anything?” an associate asks me as he wanders past me. I’m sure I look lost. I’ve been standing in the same spot at the end of an aisle of merchandise, my eyes glazed over in thought as I stare at the floor.

I startle and look up the young man who has a small pile of patterned button up shirts in his hands.

I have no idea what to say. Admitting that I’m waiting for Trevor _to_ Trevor is one thing, saying as much to a complete and utter stranger is quite another. I have this strange paranoia that this guy will assume I’m some sort of stalker if I just blurt out something like, “Do you know where Trevor is—I think he works here.”

So instead, I compromise. And by “compromise,” I mean I stare at the guy like I’m a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide and looking ready to bolt in a random direction at any second.

The guy peers closer at me, and I feel my fight or flight instincts kick in. For obvious reasons, it’s unwise to throat-punch this guy, so my legs tense, ready to help me flee far and fast, and I’m ready to pretend this whole experience never happened.

So I’m surprised when the guy says, “Wait, you’re Mark, right?”

My confusion is strong and poignant, and temporarily sets my flight instinct into a state of chaotic bafflement. “Um.”

“No, yeah, yeah, yeah,” the guy says quickly, waving a hand at me. “You are. I saw you. Yeah. Mark, yeah.”

I’m... not sure what to do. I don’t know what to say. I can only default to again staring like a deer caught in headlights, unable to even compute the proper response to this situation.

“Well, if you’re looking for ‘im, I can get ‘im. Bit busy, though—you know Fridays. Retail is always busy as a bee on Fridays,” the guy chatters on.

I have no idea what he’s saying.

“It’s nice, though. Glad the guy got himself out of that terrible relationship—anyway. Trevor, right? You’re looking for Trevor?”

I am still so confused and have no idea what to say, but “Trevor”—yes. That I can nod at and not be agreeing to something I don’t understand or know.

The guy dumps the shirts onto a nearby rack and fumbles off really quick. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to follow, but the pace he sets is pretty break-neck, so I decide to occupy my time. And by “occupy my time,” I mean I notice that the shirts the guy dopped haven’t been folded very nicely. I fold them slowly, taking my time to make them look neat and tidy.

What else am I supposed to do?

Then, I notice that the random associate didn’t place the shirts in the appropriate area for them. They’re a mix of several patterns and I can only assume they’re either returns or someone changed their mind and didn’t want to buy them. So, I find the slot with a matching pattern and tuck them all neatly into their appropriate home. Then, I see that a lot of the shirts have a tousled look to them, like customers were careless as they rifled through for the size that best fit them. And so, I begin the process of pulling out the worst of the bunch and refolding them because I am nervous energy and it feels better to do something than to stand still.

“My new coworker is sexy as hell.”

I jump and whirl, clutching the shirt I was folding to my chest like I’m a naked maiden who is trying to protect her modesty.

“Trevor,” I yelp, unsure what else to say.

He smiles at me, one side of his mouth curling.

I realize I’m still clutching the shirt and make a conscious effort to pull it away from me, fold it, and place it on a shelf.

“When did you start here?” he teases.

I mutter an embarrassed rush of nonsensical syllables, not even sure what I’m trying to say.

“You work harder than the employee of the month,” he jokes, coming up behind me. He snakes an arm around me and gently tugs me close, my back pressed in to align with his torso, his resting on my head.

I like this. I like this a lot. I like this so much. Somehow, it helps to ease my anxiety and I feel myself relax against him.

“I can wait if you can’t clock out yet,” I mumble.

He chuckles. “You did enough work to cover the last ten minutes of my shift. ‘Sides, my coworker thought it was adorable my boyfriend came to pick me up. I get to head out early because of you.”

I frown as I remember. “How did he know who I was?”

“Hmm? Oh. That picture I took, remember? He’s the one who wanted to see you.”

Oh.

“He thinks my name is Mark,” I tell him, wrinkling my nose.

“Somehow, he managed to call me ‘Travis’ my first year working here,” Trevor tells me, huffing out a laugh. “Don’t judge him too harshly.”

I can’t keep myself from smiling at the thought.

“Hungry?” Trevor asks as he releases me. “I know this good—”

“Take out place?” I say drily, finishing his sentence.

He smiles sheepishly. “Unless you’d prefer something nicer.”

I almost roll my eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He takes my hand and guides me away, out of the store and into the heart of the mall.

***

“You look disappointed,” Trevor says as I pick up a fry and examine it.

“Mm,” I mutter-hum. “I guess I… wasn’t expecting it.”

“Something wrong with it?” Trevor asks, instantly on alert.

“Nothing, um, ‘wrong,’” I quickly assure him. “I guess when you said that you ‘knew a great take out place,’ I just wasn’t expecting”—my gaze goes back to the fry—“a burger chain.”

“You don’t like burger chains?”

“Didn’t say that,” I say quickly. “Just... who hasn’t been here? Not sure it’s, um, well especially note-worthy.”

I can see Trevor trying not to look bummed. “Every couple needs a cheap, famous, chain restaurant date.”

I dunk my fry in a small tub of ketchup and eat it. “Yeah, won’t see me actually complaining. Just thought you had something more unique—I guess?—in mind.”

Trevor ponders this. Then, he picks up a fry, examines it as though he thought it may tell him the secrets of the universe, nods once.

And throws it at me.

I am disbelief personified. “Did you just...?”

He munches on a fry in one hand while using the other to chuck another at me.

“You’re wasting food,” I protest, exasperated.

“You said ‘unique,’” Trevor points out. “I’m giving you unique.”

“Not _quite_ what I meant,” I comment drily, picking up the fry he tossed that landed on the table near me and chucking it back in his direction. “I meant, like, I dunno—a family owned place, or some foreign cuisine?”

Honestly, I’m not even sure what I meant. The most go-to fast food chain was not what I thought _he_ meant, though.

Trevor picks up the fry that’s been tossed between us and ponders. I can see the moment the lightbulb lights up over his head. His expression brightens and he picks up the fry, places it on his top lip, curls it to hold it in place, and says in a very serious tone, “Dees ees what you think of my per-feect deener?”

I pause sipping my chocolate milkshake to gaze at him. “Was that supposed to be a German accent?”

Trevor frowns, and the fry falls from his face as he forgets to dramatically curl his lip to hold it in place.

“French,” he says, wounded.

I honestly don’t know if it’s my geographical skills that are lacking or his.

He tosses the fry back at me. I think he’s still pouting.

That single fry winds up being tossed back and forth between us dozens of times before we finally clean up and head for his apartment.

***

“Throw it _away_,” I demand, exasperated, as we walk to the bus stop.

“Somehow, it’s a souvenir.”

“It’s a souvenir until it rots. It’s just a fried potato.”

“Maybe it’ll ossify,” Trevor suggests.

“That’s just another form of rotting,” I press.

“Hmm.”

“Throw it away,” I say, once more exasperated.

Trevor turns towards me to say something more, trips, and tosses his hands out in a quick flail to keep his balance. Somehow, it works.

“Oh, no,” he breathe, examining the ground.

“What?”

“I dropped it.”

“Dropped what?”

“The souvenir!” he cries, still searching the ground. “Our French fry!”

“It’s... just a fry.”

“You do not understand the importance of a souvenir.”

Apparently not.

I see the long form of the bus slowing at the curb’s end.

“C’mon,” I tell him. “We’ll miss our bus.”

He wavers. “But...”

“It’s just a fry,” I say, trying not to sound irritated.

With a weary sigh, he follows me as I jog to catch the bus. He’s clearly hurt at my lack of concern, but I can’t fathom why. As the bus maneuvers through the roads to his apartment, I try to build up the courage to ask him something—to move the thoughts in his mind away from the lost “souvenir,” to distract him, to cheer him.

But I have never been good with words.

I stay quiet.

Trevor continues to mope.

***

I have one distraction at my disposal. I use it when necessary. I do not enjoy it, but I manage to get through it okay every time. I kiss Trevor in the privacy of his apartment, lure him to his bed, let myself be stripped of my clothes and himself of his, let him kiss me, kiss him in turn, and then let him pleasure himself with my body.

He holds me close afterwards and I let him. I do not know what the unspoken agreement is in a relationship that it titled “boyfriends,” but I like this part, and I relish in it.

But eventually I pull away to shower and wash my body of the mess he’s left on me. When I emerge, he once more has his questionnaire in hand. I am too exasperated and tired to do anything more than point at one of the emos—_emojis,_ excuse me—at random. This time, I manage to pick an upside-down smiley face.

I have no idea what it means.

“That’s better than before,” he tells me, encouraged by this fact.

I don’t know what to say. I say nothing.

He opens his arms for me. This part, I like. This part, I enjoy. I crawl into the bed and let him wrap himself around me.

“I think we have a good thing going with us,” he mumbles, half asleep, in my ear.

I sink deeper into his arms, buoyed somehow by his words.

“Move in with me,” he mutters, groggily.

I am suddenly wide awake. “Whuh- what?”

This is not a conversation I ever thought to have half-asleep, and so I pull myself from his arms to sit up and look at him. His expression is serious as he looks at me.

“It’s lonely during the week without you,” he tells me earnestly when I say nothing me. “Would you—I mean—consider moving in with me?”

There are countless thoughts rolling over and over in my mind, like the clothes in a washing machine tumbling time and time again over one another. They move too fast for me to make too much sense of.

But I do remember the nightmare I have to go home to. I remember Kay, his wife, his daughter, and how I constantly feel like a stranger in their home. I remember the fact that the home I return to is not mine to call my own. I remember Kay’s continual insistence to pry into my life; his constant “concern.”

Trevor’s face clouds. “I mean, I don’t want make you feel like you have to say yes—”

“Okay,” I breathe.

He cuts himself off to blink at me. “What?”

I nod, whispering, “Yes.”

A smile of pure exhilaration tugs at his lips. He pulls me close, presses his mouth to mine.

“You won’t regret this,” he murmurs against my lips, and I close my eyes and let his cheerful affection wash over me.

In this moment, I think I am happy.

***

I find that while I don’t enjoy partaking in Trevor’s daily routine, I like watching him as he goes about it. He returns from his daily run sometime between five-thirty and six. He goes through a daily regime of exercises and often I wake to catch him in the middle of them. He often coaxes me to lie on his back as he tries to muscle through one thousand pushups in an hour.

He claims it’s a form of strength training.

I think he is insane.

“I’m just saying,” he grunts the next morning as I stare up at the ceiling, our backs curved against one another, “why flex your modesty muscle when you could be flexing your biceps?”

I snort, too tired to protest, and my mind too distracted to come up with a retort.

In a few weeks, I will no longer need to live with Kay. In a few weeks, I will no longer need to report back to Kay, with him pressing me with questions to wheedle out every detail he can about my personal lives. In a few weeks, it will just be Trevor and me. In a few weeks, I will be free of Kay. I will be free of Kay. I will be free of Kay. I will be free of Kay.

I cannot say that enough. I cannot think it enough. It is a broken record in my mind.

It leaves me feeling almost dizzy with relief.

“Time?” Trevor huffs.

I yawn and check the clock. “Forty minutes.”

He grunts. “At seven hundred. I think I can make it this time.”

I still think he is insane.

But as he continues his odd morning exercise, I can’t keep my lips from curling in a smile.

For now, I am still happy.


	19. Chapter 19

Jess is quiet as she sneaks into my room.

“Markus,” she whispers into the gloom, “are you awake?”

“Yeah, I am.” I look at my clock. “You have school tomorrow, right?”

She doesn’t miss the implication. “It’s not _that_ late.”

“Some of us need sleep. I have work tomorrow,” I tease.

She smiles but it’s wobbly. That’s when I notice her cheeks are splotchy and her eyes are red-rimmed.

“You okay?”

She purses her lips and I think she’s trying to keep from crying. “Can I talk to you?”

I wordlessly scooch over on my bed so she can sit next to me.

“I’m pregnant and I don’t know what to do,” she tells me.

Very straight forward. Okay, then.

“The father isn’t... he can’t... I mean, we weren’t... this wasn’t supposed to be serious, you know? I think, anyway. I don’t think he... well, it’s not like he can...”

I am not making heads or tails of what she’s saying, but I nod. It’s always been a safe default, and Jess seems to take comfort in it.

She bursts into tears.

Or... not.

I’m not sure what to do. I have nothing to say. I don’t know _what_ to say. I feel terrible that this girl is sobbing into her hands and I’m just staring at her, as sentient and useful as a lamp.

Very carefully, I lift a hand to place on her shoulder. I’ve seen people do this in movies. It sometimes works. I think.

Jess appreciates it. I think. She takes it as invitation to turn towards me, bury her face in my shoulder, and continue to sob.

Not exactly how I thought that was going to play out. I’m even less sure what to do. Usually people hug and say things like “It’s going to be okay” or “We’ll fix this” or “We’ll figure this out” when things like this happen in shows, or movies, or books.

I have never been one to offer false truths. I don’t know if it’s going to be okay. I don’t know if there is a way to “fix” an unwanted pregnancy, at least I think it’s unwanted with how deeply Jess is crying over it. I don’t know if there is a solution that can be figured out, either.

But I still feel as useful as a lampshade, and so I again raise a hand to place on her shoulder. She cries, and she cries, and she cries. Occasionally, she mutters something through her tears. I think she’s telling me about the father, and all I understand is that it’s someone she should not have been seeing, or so Kay would think. He’s older, I gather from Jess’ mumblings. Her friends don’t know, her parents obviously don’t.

Finally, she runs out of words and out of tears, and she quietly sniffles against my shoulder. After several minutes, she says, muffled against my t-shirt, “Thanks.”

I’m baffled. I’m not sure I’ve really done anything. “For what?”

She sits up and wipes at her eyes. “Listening. You’re a good listener. Oh, your shirt. Sorry.”

I glace at the damp spot and shrug. “Do you feel better?”

Her smile still wobbles, but I don’t think she’s going to cry again. “A little. I still don’t know if I should tell my dad.”

We share a wince at the thought.

“Well, do what you want,” I tell her.

There is no way that I would ever dream of sharing such personal information with Kay, but he is her dad, and somehow, she loves him. I’m just grateful I don’t have to be fond of him like that.

She flops onto my bed, letting her head hit the pillow. She blows out a breath of air. “Sorry to keep you up. I didn’t know who else to talk to. You’re just—really easy to talk to, you know? And you don’t gossip.” She scrunches her nose. “All my friends would gossip about it and suddenly, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.”

I shrug again. I don’t keep friendships. “It’s not that hard to keep something private a secret.”

“For you,” Jess grouses. Her tone lightens. “So, where have you been going on the weekends?”

I stiffen. She notices and rolls her eyes. “I’m not my dad. I’m not trying to police you.”

“A... friend’s,” I say haltingly.

She rolls her eyes again. Hard. “Yeah, I get that. I meant, who’s the friend? Anyone I know?”

I mumble. I’m not even sure what I mumble. I have no idea how to explain Trevor.

“Ohhh.” A smile curls Jess’ lips. “_That_ kind of friend, huh?”

I am not one to easily blush. I will not blush. I have no reason to blush.

Jess giggles.

I am blushing.

I lay down on the bed next to her and turn my face away, oddly conscious of my burning cheeks. We’re lying side by side on my bed. I’m not sure how much of my face I can hide from her when we’re lying like this.

“I’m just teasing, you know,” Jess tells me, still giggling. “I mean, obviously, if I’m pregnant, I have ‘that kind of friend,’ too.”

I scowl, irritated at myself for feeling so flustered about this. “I hope everything works out with your friend.”

Despite my irritation, I mean what I say.

Jess’ giggles cut off. She sighs. “I don’t think it will. I just hope... I want to tell my dad. I want to be _able_ to tell my dad, you know?”

I don’t, but I nod.

“I just wish he wouldn’t...”

“Be so _concerned_ about you?” I ask drily.

Her giggling is back. Once her fit subsides, she says, “I wish you were my boyfriend.”

My expression morphs into something very alarmed very fast.

“That’s not what I mean,” she said quickly, laughing again. “I just mean... you’re nice, you know? You listen to me. You’re just... I think you’d be really easy to love. A relationship would be easy with you. Your friend is lucky to have someone like you.”

If there’s one thing I am not, it’s easy to love. That’s a lesson I’ve learned the hard way. Maybe I hope, maybe I want, maybe I wish I could be loved. The best I can settle for is to be tolerated.

“Hey,” I say into the silence.

“Yeah?”

“I hope things work out for you.”

I can hear the smile in her voice. “I hope they work out for you, too.”

We’re silent again for a long moment.

“Hey,” Jess says.

“Yeah?”

“I hope he makes you happy. You deserve it.”

I deserve nothing.

And yet I hope, I want, I wish.

***

There are many things that I feel responsible for. Maybe they aren’t my fault, maybe they are, but guilt is odd in how it clings to us despite logic or reason.

If there is one thing I definitely do not feel any sense of responsibility or guilt over, it’s Jess’ pregnancy. Somehow, it’s my fault, though. According to Kay.

“You knew about this,” Kay accuses. “You knew my daughter was seeing someone.”

Jess tried to have a calm conversation with Kay about her pregnancy, but I’m not sure anything involving Kay and what he deems deviant sexual behavior is ever a calm conversation. Not really.

I still don’t know how I became involved.

“Dad,” Jess tries to cut in, but Kay holds up a hand to silence her. His angry eyes are boring holes into me.

“You knew about this,” he repeats. “You knew that my daughter was seeing someone. You knew that she was pregnant.”

I feel like a bug trying to scurry for an escape from an angry boot that wants to squash it. I nod, a small, weak gesture.

Kay’s anger bursts into an inferno. I can see it crackling in his expression.

“Dad,” Jess says, exasperated, “it’s not like that.”

Kay turns to her. “Not like what? You’ll tell everyone other than me that you’re pregnant? You didn’t—what?—trust me with this?”

Jess falters.

“How far along are you?”

Jess bites her lip.

“How far along are you?” Kay asks again, gentling his voice.

“I think, um, about three months?”

“Three months,” Kay repeats, sounding stunned. For a moment, his anger fizzles as he thinks about the implications of that. His gaze returns to me. “And you knew this whole time?”

I fidget, uncomfortable and still wondering how I became so involved in this conversation.

“Dad—”

“You knew this whole time?” Kay repeats, the anger returning to his accusatory voice.

“I just told him, Dad. Jesus, this is why I didn’t want to tell you,” Jess cries, visibly frustrated now.

Kay gives her an admonishing look and she huffs out a sigh.

“I’m just saying, Markus isn’t a good influence. He hasn’t made very good life choices, himself.”

He’s also standing right here, but since when has Kay ever pulled any punches with his lectures?

“Dad, he isn’t—He’s the one who_ gave_ me condoms,” Jess blurts angrily, “so I could—”

She seems to remember—too late—just who she’s speaking to and cuts herself off with a wince. She’s already shooting me an apologetic look when Kay whirls on me.

“You bought her condoms?”

“Uh...”

Strictly speaking, no. I gave her some that I bought for myself that I hadn’t used yet.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jess says quickly. “I was already pregnant by that point.”

Kay whirls towards her again, expression incredulous. “How often have you _met_ with this fellow?”

Jess’ cheeks darken with embarrassment, and possibly a little anger or indignation. “Does it matter? I’m eighteen.”

“You just turned eighteen,” Kay corrects. “How long have you been involved with this guy? _Who _is this guy, anyway? Have I met him? You never told me you had a boyfriend.”

I feel a kinship with Jess as I watch her deflect his questions. I’ve been in her position many times. Kay’s always quick to probe for as many details as he can get.

But before Jess has to fumble her way through his questions, Kay whirls on me again. “And I suppose you know who she’s seeing, right? You seem to be very privy on these details.”

“Dad,” Jess says, “please don’t. This isn’t his fault.”

But the glare on Kay’s face tells me he thinks this is very much my fault.

I don’t know what else I can contribute to this conversation—I’m still confused why I was dragged into it to begin with—so I clear my throat and say, “I’m... about to head out to a friend’s.”

I just need to get away.

Of course, that was somehow the worst thing for me to say. But that’s me, and what I do. Markus, the walking disaster who says and does the worst possible thing in every situation.

“A _friend’s_?” Kay repeats. “The same friend you’ve been seeing these past weeks? Why haven’t I met this friend?”

“Dad—”

“I’m just saying,” Kay says firmly, “I haven’t met your boyfriend who you’ve been seeing for months, apparently, and I don’t even know who his friend _is_. Apparently, I’m not allowed to know anything about the people I live with.”

Jess flinches, stung. Kay immediately softens, his anger leaving him as fast as air from a popped balloon. “Jess, I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

“Yes,” she says, sounding close to tears. “It was. And for the record, this is exactly why I was afraid to tell you, and why it took me so long. I was afraid you’d do something like this.”

It’s Kay’s turn to wince.

“Jess,” he says gently, reaching for her. “You know I’m just—”

“Concerned,” Jess bites out. “Yeah, I know.”

It seems we both hate that word when it comes from Kay’s mouth.

“I’m going out for a bit,” Jess decides. “I want to cool my head. When I come back, maybe we can talk about this again.”

She sniffs, wipes at her eyes, and heads towards the door. She latches onto my sleeve and tugs me after.

“Jess, where are you—”

“Out,” she tosses over her shoulder. “I’m allowed to go out for an afternoon, aren’t I? Already pregnant, so what other trouble could I possibly get myself into?”

“Jess, please—”

But Jess has set her mind on this for some reason and marches us out the front door. I’m surprised when Kay doesn’t follow.

She pauses in front of the house, breathing deeply.

“You okay?” I ask.

Her smile is bitter. “Just told my dad I’m pregnant and he freaked. Never better.”

Yes, well.

She softens. “Sorry. I think I’m moody. Hormones or something. I’m fine. I’ll take a walk around the neighborhood and calm down.”

I nod.

“You off to see your friend?” she asks.

I nod. I’m certainly not going back into the house with a fuming Kay.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Go get ‘im, tiger.” She winks.

Before I can figure out what to say, she whirls and heads off on her walk.

***

I do wind up going to Trevor’s. I feel weird showing up unannounced, but I have no where else to go. Friends? The list is short. Family? I’m not sure they’d even open the door once they saw it was me.

I try not to feel responsible or guilty, and I try not to let Kay’s words bother me. But I do, and they do, even though I have no idea how I could have contributed to Jess’ teenage pregnancy and Kay said nothing to me that wasn’t true.

I am a terrible influence.

I feel heavy when Trevor opens the door. He smiles when he sees me, but I’m too distracted to really appreciate how it lights up his face. It also dims almost immediately, eventually sliding from his face as he takes me in.

“Markus,” he says gently, “what’s wrong?”

I don’t know what to say. I feel like a walking disaster. I _am _a walking disaster.

I just want to sit down and cry or something.

When I say nothing, Trevor takes my hand and gently leads me into his apartment.

“Trash,” I note when I see a bag tied and left in the kitchen, next to the trash can, but I can’t even care about that at this point. My tone is dull and lifeless.

Trevor looks sheepish. “Yeah, I was about to get to that.”

“Takeout,” I add when I see the open and empty containers on the living room table. But there’s no bite to my tone.

“Um, yeah, I was going to clean that before you came over. You took me by surprise. Wasn’t expecting you for a bit. Not that I mind, just... are you okay?”

He searches my face.

I’m not going to cry. I have nothing to cry about. There’s no reason to cry.

Trevor lets out an alarmed breath.

I’m crying.

Dammit.

He reaches for me, and I feel too dull to swat him away. I let myself fall into his chest, and let his arms wrap around me. He does what I couldn’t do when I was the one offering Jess comfort in a similar fashion a few nights ago. He tries to placate me with little, sweet nothings.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “I’m here,” he says. “Are you okay?” he wants to know. “I’m here,” he says. “Do you want to talk about it?” he queries. And always, he comes back to “I’m here. I’m here, Markus.”

I don’t even know how to answer him or what half of what he says means, but I’m somehow okay with this. I may have offered no comfort like this to Jess, but she was the one who needed to speak. I need someone to fill the silence. I need someone to talk over my thoughts.

Somehow, this helps.

Trevor doesn’t seem too terribly upset at my silence, and keeps whispering into my ear, stroking my back, my shoulder, my hair. I feel like a child and I would rather choke on my tongue than admit it, but for right here, right now, I like it. I like that Trevor thinks he can smooth my worries away and whisper sweet nothings that will chase away my demons.

It won’t work, but I like pretending.

There is nothing that will ever fix me.

I’m not sure how much time passes, but eventually, I calm down.

“Maybe this is bad timing,” Trevor says when he notices, “but this could also cheer you up. I got two tickets to the amusement park.”

I pull away from him and try to clean up my face. “Amusement park?”

“Yeah, you know. The one we, uh, met at. I thought it would be a cute anniversary date.”

I blink at him, confused.

“Three months since we met?” he clarifies, but it sounds like a question, like he wants me to verify the date myself.

“I guess.”

“So... you want to go?”

“Sure.”

Trevor actually does a fist pump.

“You... thought I’d say no?” I hazard a guess.

“I hoped you’d say yes. Oh, and, uh, where did I put it?” He pats down his pockets. With a triumphant “ah hah!” he pulls a key out of his pocket and holds it out to me. It’s small with a keychain of a trash can that says, “please recycle.”

I’m staring at the keychain.

“Do you like it?” Trevor asks. Somehow, he sounds nervous.

“The keychain? It’s, um...” Something. It’s something. “It’s nice. Is it supposed to be a reminder or something?”

“A reminder?” Trevor looks baffled.

I pointedly peer around him at the trash bag still laying on the kitchen floor.

“Oh,” Trevor says sheepishly. “Um. No. I just thought it was funny.”

My turn to look baffled. “Funny that you don’t take your trash out?”

And now Trevor looks like a kicked puppy. Another point to Markus, the walking disaster.

“If you don’t like it, I can get you another one. Something different. I just didn’t know what you liked, and the store only had a few options.”

“Why do I have to like your keychain?”

Trevor looks utterly wounded.

I am so lost.

Still looking dejected, he holds it out. “Well, here. I’ll see if I can find something else for the keychain.”

I look between the key and him. “Why do I need this?”

“It’s... yours?”

What is going on.

“Unless you changed your mind?”

This conversation has moved in directions I can’t even try to keep up with. “Changed my mind about what?”

Trevor blinks. “Moving in?”

Oh.

_Oh_.

This key is for... me. It must be a key to his apartment.

“I know we didn’t talk about a specific move in date, but I figured if you had the key you could make the decision yourself, but...”

He looks so uncertain. I feel like a dick.

“I didn’t change my mind,” I tell him quietly.

His smile returns and he offers me the key again. I accept it and examine it.

“‘Please recycle’? That’s the best you could find?”

“Well, I thought a takeout container would be more appropriate but I don’t think they make those as keychains. Since you like to remind me how terrible I am about cleaning—”

“You tried to use a chopstick to cut a roll in half.”

Trevor throws up his hands like I’ve said something ridiculous. “That was one time.”

“You had a pair of underwear dangling from your ceiling fan.”

“Again,” Trevor presses, “one time.”

I surprise myself with laughing.

“So, you like it?” Trevor asks. “The...”

He gestures at the key chain.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah. I like it.”

I like it just fine. 


	20. Chapter 20

The amusement park seems different, somehow, in the fall. Maybe it’s the trees with their multi-colored leaves that cluster, falling to crunch under foot. Or maybe it’s the fact that there’s a bite in the air, the temperature falling to something that requires layers, a hoodie, a sweater.

This time, though, I am not the third wheel. This time, I am not an inconvenience. I am not left to entertain myself as my party heads off to enjoy the park together. This time, Trevor takes my hand and leads me through the twists and turns of the footpaths, insisting that we need to ride this, we need to get on that, we need to see this, we need to play that.

He is the type of person who herds around the photo kiosks conveniently located at the end of the exit lane of the rollercoasters, craning his neck until he spots what he’s looking for.

“Look!” he yelps excitedly, pointing. “It’s us!”

I spare the picture a glance. Mumble something.

“We look great!” he insists, backing away from the counter to get in line, tugging me along with him.

“You’re buying that?” I ask, dumbfounded.

Trevor smiles, that upturn of one half of his face. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s,” he adds, shrugging, sheepish, “sort of an anniversary, right?”

I can only stare.

He buys it, though. The picture of us, that is—with him, face wild with excitement, and mine, quiet and tense. Even in pictures, I’m quiet. Always so quiet. Do I know how to make an expression? I’m not sure.

“It’s great!” Trevor enthuses, clipping it onto his keys. He looks at it fondly before tucking his keys back into his pocket.

I have no idea how to tell him that no, it isn’t. There isn’t anything great about the photo—or, maybe more accurately, there isn’t anything great about _me_ in the photo. Trevor looks great, sure, as ever. It’s me who looks out of place, who makes the photo look off and not right.

But it seems ridiculous to argue the point right now when Trevor looks so pleased. I’d be the bad guy. I’d be the downer. Markus, the downer, that’s me. So for now, I say nothing.

“Oh,” Trevor says suddenly as we wander through the footpaths, on the hunt for what to do next, “remember those?”

I look. And I do.

“The spinning wheel games.”

“Yeah,” Trevor agrees. “That’s how I met you. Well, how I noticed you,” he corrects with an embarrassed shrug. And then he tacks on, “You know, you never did tell me how you knew what number the wheel would land on.”

“Oh,” I say, and falter, because I have no idea how to explain.

But Trevor waits patiently, head cocked in curiosity.

“Well, um,” I fumble, “I watched and I noticed there was a pattern and then, um, it wasn’t so hard to figure out.”

The space between Trevor’s eyebrow folds into a crease. “What do you mean?”

I cannot use words to explain this. Maybe if I had pen and paper I could write out a string of patterns so he could see for himself, but I have no idea how to even begin an explanation of what I mean.

Finally, frustrated, I simply say, “Maybe I can just show you?”

He agrees and we take a seat on a nearby bench. We’re close enough that we can see, and we can hear when the attendant announces the winning number each round.

“Just... pay attention to the numbers,” I murmur. Trevor nods, looking studious, like a student who’s just been told by a teacher to pay attention to this specific lesson because it’s going to be on the next test, word for word.

Somehow, it’s cute. It’s endearing that Trevor takes me so seriously.

We wait. We watch. We listen. The wheel is numbered one through twenty-five, with a counter surrounding the wheel, and numbered spaces filling the counter, each number its own color. Players place coins on the number they bet on, and most lose their coin. A few manage to win. Not many people seem to pick up on the fact that there’s a pattern to this madness, easy enough to pick apart if someone would only stay enough rounds to notice. Most don’t. They wander away, sour over their loss or too euphoric over their win to stick around for another dance with chance.

It’s not chance.

We continue to wait and watch and listen. More rounds go by, and I think I’ve picked up on the pattern—14, 19, 24, 4. Increments of five, then? It’s an easy pattern today. Each wheel must have it’s own pattern, or they must change day to day. This wheel has smaller prizes, and maybe that’s why it’s easier to predict. The wheel I predicted before had a more convoluted method to it.

“What are we looking for?” Trevor finally asks me.

“You don’t see the pattern?” I murmur. “It’s easier today than it was last time I—we were here.”

He shakes his head and looks at me curiously. And, emboldened by that look, I stand, take his hand, and lead him to the numbered counters of the game.

“Then,” I say simply, “let’s play and see if I’m right.”

“Which number?” he asks, glancing at the numbered spaces on the counter.

“Nine,” I tell him.

He places his coin on the appropriate slot without hesitation.

There is such a heady power in knowing that he—what?—blindly trusts me? I suppose that’s the best way to express it. For now, he asks me no questions and makes no demands, and trusts me without any reason other than he wants to.

It makes something in my chest flutter.

And I miss the game’s attendant calling out the winning number, the number that the wheel landed on. But Trevor’s face lights up, and he hoots a noise of jubilation, and he looks at me and says, “I won!”

The attendant comes over and asks which prize Trevor would like. He points, and the attendant hands it over. Trevor turns to me and holds it out, smile turning up one half of his lips, expression warm.

I blink stupidly, coming out of my thoughts. “What?” I ask, thinking he’s said something I didn’t quite catch.

“It’s for you.”

I point at myself like I’ve forgotten what those words mean. “For me?”

“Of course.”

Of course. So, I reach out tentatively, and Trevor deposits something small and soft into my hand. I take a moment to look at it.

It’s a keychain. It’s a small, soft hedgehog plush with a plastic snap-on clip. The hedgehog’s spikes are soft, a dark brown against the lighter brown of its body. It’s cute.

I look at Trevor questioningly.

“It reminded me of you,” he says simply, an answer to the question I don’t know how to ask.

Maybe on another day I would take offense. This creature that’s made to be prickly and untouchable being compared to me. But today, there’s no space in my mind for arguments or fighting. So instead, I smile. Before I can decide what to do with my new prize, Trevor’s expression shifts into something competitive.

“Again?” he asks. “Think you know what the next one is?”

I nod and push the little keychain into my pocket. “Fourteen.”

He slides another coin onto the slot for fourteen. And he wins again. The attendant congratulates him for his luck and he laughs, tilting his head towards me.

“I brought my lucky charm,” he tells the attendant, who glances at me. I duck back, quickly looking down.

But I’m smiling as the attendant asks Trevor which prize he’d like this time.

“You pick,” Trevor murmurs to me.

It’s a small thing, but I’ve never liked being the center of attention, small or large. I look up at the small wall of prizes, intending to point at the first one I see. But somehow, there’s one in particular—

_Banana._

_What?_

—that catches my eye, and I point. The attendant fetches it, hands it over.

It is a plush, velvety soft and palm sized, of a banana.

The memories slam into me, unwelcome and unbidden.

“What’s that?” Trevor asks, frowning, coming closer to inspect. “A banana?” His face crinkles in confused amusement. “Why that?”

“I like to keep a theme,” I whisper, not quite here, not quite there. Not quite anywhere.

But that will not do. It’s with force that I shake myself away and free and look up at Trevor, glancing at the curl of hair against his neck.

He shrugs, accepting this as he does everything—with little question. “A theme, you say?”

I nod.

He chuckles. “Somehow, I’m not surprised. Anyway, I’m starving. Hungry?”

I tighten my grip on the velvety soft banana plush. “Yeah.”

He suggests one of the nearby restaurants, and I nod again. I’m so good at nodding. But I’m also trying to shove away memories that do no belong here and focus on the here and now, which is oddly distracting, and it feels like all I can do right now are non-verbal things.

It isn’t a fancy restaurant he takes us to, more like a casual eatery. I get pizza because that’s easy to order, and he gets a sandwich. We sit and start eating.

“Didn’t you get pizza last time?” he asks.

Did I? I wouldn’t be surprised if I did. Something flutters in my stomach at the thought that he remembers little things like that, that he takes notice of me.

“Oh, hey, there’s something I wanted to tell you,” he says once he finishes his sandwich. “I ran into my ex-girlfriend and turns out, she’s pregnant.”

My eyebrows arch up.

“Yeah,” Trevor says, a little bitterly. “Turns out that friend of mine she was sleeping with didn’t use protection.”

“Wonder if he tacked his condoms to the wall?” I tease because I’m not sure what his mood is right now. He stopped mentioning his ex-girlfriend every other sentence several weeks ago, but I suppose it might still bother him to think about her. Why is he mentioning her?

Trevor smiles, abashed. “That was just one time.”

I can’t keep my eyes from rolling.

“Well, so,” he starts again, clearing his throat. “I guess her new beau isn’t interested in playing house. They split up. She was living with him, and now she’s homeless. She’s pregnant, and she doesn’t have anywhere to go.”

“That’s terrible,” I offer because it is. I may have had stints with homelessness myself, but at least I can’t get pregnant. At least I don’t have to worry about figuring out how to provide for another human. I can barely provide for myself.

“Yeah, so she needs a place to stay. I mean, I’m not happy about it, but I think we can make it work. I was looking into it, and my apartment complex has two bedroom floorplans. The bedrooms are a little smaller, but the rent isn’t too much more per month. We could definitely make it work.”

Now I’m lost. “Make what work?”

And then Trevor looks lost, like he doesn’t know how I’m lost. “The three of us.”

Three of us? Are we getting a dog who gets its own bedroom? Are we raising this lady’s kid? Who is the third party of this equation?

Oh.

I realize who he means—what he means—very suddenly, and I feel stupid for not realizing sooner what he was saying, what he was implying, why he’s telling me this.

“She’s moving in with you,” I say.

“Well, with us,” Trevor corrects with a shrug. “I wanted to let you know since she’s going to start moving her stuff into the apartment this weekend. I guess she’ll take the couch. I think we’re going to get lucky about the apartment thing—apparently a two bedroom is opening up in a few weeks and we can take it. We’ll have priority over getting it since it’s three tenants currently in a one-bedroom, plus she’s pregnant.”

Something hard clamps around my stomach. Something hard and cold, like metal on a winter day.

“You,” I say slowly, trying to keep up with what he’s saying. “You already talked to her about it? And everything?”

“Yeah,” Trevor tells me. “I figured it all out this morning. It all kind of happened fast. I didn’t want to surprise you with anything. I didn’t know if she already started moving her stuff in, so I don’t know if some of her stuff will be in the apartment when we get back to it. Or if she’ll be there.”

That thought sends a jolt through me. It feels close to panic.

I don’t even know this woman’s name, and she’s going to live with us. She’s Trevor’s ex-girlfriend, and even if she’s pregnant with someone else’s child, I can’t see her having any love or affection for me for being in a relationship with Trevor, given how she hadn’t seemed to want to end things. I hadn’t realized how easy things were between Trevor and me, but now, imagining what a life with her would look like, I start to see it. Trevor might have his little eccentricities, but it’s always just been him and me.

Is his ex-girlfriend spiteful of my presence, angry at her situation, controlling of her surroundings? Will she try to take control of things like Kay controls his household? Is she going to be a difficult roommate, angry that she’s going to give birth to a child with a father who doesn’t want anything to do with either of them? Is she going to take that out on me, on Trevor? Is she going to be spiteful that Trevor broke up with her in the first place? Is she going to try to get back together with him? Does she know about me? Does she think she’s moving back in and things are going back to how they used to be?

My thoughts fire off so many questions I can’t think straight. I can’t even really hear any one question, they overlap, a tumble of noise in my head. But one does manage to scream louder than the others.

Am I going to have to compete with this ex-girlfriend for Trevor? I am not competitive. I am not strong enough for that. I cannot live with my guard up all the time. And even if she somehow is at peace with the fact that she’s going to live with her ex-boyfriend and his new boyfriend, I don’t know anything about her. I already jumped into a bad living relationship with Kay. What if this is somehow worse? I want better, not worse.

I just wanted to live with Trevor.

“Okay?” Trevor asks, pulling me back to here and now, sitting at this bench in this cheap eatery in the amusement park that was supposed to be an anniversary date.

I nod because that’s what I always do when people ask me questions I don’t know how to answer.

And then I stop.

Because no.

It’s not okay.

It’s not okay and I can’t just blindly agree to this like I blindly agreed to live with Kay, thinking, _How bad can it be?_

Because it was bad. It is bad. It’s terrible living with Kay and I hate it. And I don’t want to live somewhere that I wind up hating more.

“I,” I say finally, and my voice seems so small, so tired. But I keep talking, I get it out. “I wanted to live with you.”

Trevor frowns, confused. “Isn’t that what you’re going to do?”

“No,” I say. I try to say. It comes out a whisper.

Trevor puzzles over me and finally teases, “Are you jealous?”

Maybe it’s jealousy that speared me, hot and painful. Maybe it’s not. I’m not sure what to call this feeling. But if it’s jealousy, there’s a lot more to it than that. It’s much more. It’s knowing that there’s no way I can live with his ex-girlfriend, knowing that my every day will be a balancing act. It’s thinking that everything will be a competition, even when it’s not. It’s knowing that Trevor was a good enough ex-boyfriend to offer this to her, but not a good enough boyfriend to ask me about it. It’s knowing I’ll have to live with someone who hates me.

Pretty sure this lady hates me, anyway. If she doesn’t already, she will soon.

“What happens when the baby comes?” I ask.

Trevor shrugs. “We’ll figure it out. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. It isn’t a big deal. She’ll have her own room. It’ll be like having another roommate.”

_It isn’t a big deal. _

Except it is a big deal.

I can’t do this.

“What can’t you do?” Trevor asks, and I realize I said that out loud.

“If she moves in,” I say, “I can’t.”

Trevor looks confused again. That’s all I do, confuse people. How often has Trevor been confused over me? Too many times to count.

“What do you mean?” he asks finally.

“If she moves in,” I say, “I can’t. I won’t.”

Trevor looks pained. “Markus, I can’t just let her live on the streets. She’s pregnant.”

Maybe I’m a terrible person for thinking that this isn’t Trevor’s responsibility. This woman probably has other friends or family she can stay with. Why choose Trevor?

The answer to that question is easy.

Because this is who he is. Trevor is the nice guy who doesn’t say no to people who need help.

“Then I can’t move in,” I say.

Trevor’s face falls. I look away, pull the key out of my pocket. It still has a little trash can attached to it. _Please recycle._

_I am_, I think bitterly. _I am recycling_.

I’m giving this key over for someone else to use. I’m giving Trevor over to someone else to use. To keep using.

He doesn’t take it from me so I lay it down on the table between us.

I need to say this now or I never will.

“I don’t think we should see each other again,” I say. I force myself to say. “I don’t want to hang out anymore.”

I just want to curl up and throw up. Or cry. Or sleep. I feel sick with misery, and so tired.

I am always so tired.

I need to stop pitying myself.

“Markus,” Trevor says quickly as I stand. I gather my trash. He reaches for my hand to halt me and I step back and away.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

I do. No, I don’t. Sort of. I can’t make eye contact. I only ever made eye contact with him by accident, and quickly skittered my glance away. I’ve always focused on his nose or his eyebrows or his cheek or his ears or the strand of hair that curls at the end and lays on his neck.

I’m looking at it now.

“Bye,” I say.

Bye, curl of hair.

I throw my trash away but Trevor is on his feet. I don’t want to talk to him anymore. I just want to go home—to Kay’s home, not the one I was going to have with Trevor—and curl up on my bed and sleep. But Trevor has a creased expression and looks like he wants to walk over to me and I don’t want that right now.

I do what I do best, which actually isn’t nodding and agreeing all the time, as it turns out.

It’s running away.


	21. Chapter 21

There is a difference between being alone and being left alone.

Being alone is a choice. You choose to be alone, even if you may not actually want it. You choose not to reach out. You choose to be isolated.

Being left alone is the same as be being left behind. You weren’t alone. You had someone. You found someone. But then, you weren’t wanted, and so you were left behind, like trash on the street, swirling down the gutter in a rain storm.

_Please recycle._

Maybe I’m the one being recycled. Again and again. Picked up. Dusted off. Used for a bit. Until it becomes clear what little use I have. What little I offer. And then, abandoned again. Only for this cycle to repeat.

I don’t want the cycle to repeat. I want the cycle to end.

I can’t stand the idea of being alone and I’m afraid of being left alone. It’s a state of being that is contradictory and can’t be sustained. I have to be one or the other and I want to be neither. Where does that leave me?

And why did I think a relationship would work, would ever work, anyway? Why did I think it would make me happy? I’m not happy. I don’t know what it means to be happy.

And yet a small, traitorous part of me reminds me that I was happy with Trevor. With Jo.

But no. Look how those ended up. How I messed up.

That’s right, Mikey. You’re going to make the same mistakes again and again. You never learn. You don’t know how to learn. You don’t know when to give up. You don’t—

No.

No, I vow I will not make this mistake again.

And yet still, I cannot bring myself to get rid of this hedgehog, of this banana. I forgot I had them at first, shoved into my pockets, but now I can’t get rid of them, can’t throw them in a trash can at the bus stop. It feels like throwing myself away. Like somehow these stupid toys are a part of me and throwing them away is giving up on myself. And I want to throw them away and I want to give up.

But I can’t give up on myself. I won’t make it if I do.

So I go home. I go to Kay’s. I ignore him. He notices I’m back and he tries to ask questions and I dart into my room, I run away. I close the door and lock it, needed to board myself away, needing to be alone. Alone, alone, alone, alone and left alone.

I never told Kay I was planning to move out. I can only imagine how terrible —how much worse— this all would be if I did. He wouldn’t have had more than a few days to quietly rejoice that he had finally passed me off to someone else before I had to break the bad news to him.

Sorry, I’m not recyclable material, actually. I’m just trash. I need to be left alone to decompose with time. I’m going to be here a long time, rotting, in your home. Sorry.

I am being melodramatic. Right now, I don’t care. Right now, I am in flight or fight mode, and I don’t know how to fight. Right now, I am a wounded animal seeking a small, dark corner to hide. Right now, I am so angry at myself for getting my hopes up. For hoping at all. For thinking I could have something.

Do you ever learn, Mikey?

Yes. I can. I will.

I set the banana on my dresser, clip the hedgehog to my keys—the ones to Kay’s house.

They will be reminders, I decide. I will look at them and remember. I will learn. I can learn from this.

Never again, I tell myself bitterly.

I would rather be alone than left alone.


End file.
